COURTNEY 


COOPEI 


THE  WHITE  DESERT 


,' 


It  was  easier  to  accept  the  more   precipitous  journey, 
straight  downward.     FRONTISPIECE.   See  page  254. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT 


BY 

COURTNEY  RYLEY  COOPER 

AUTHOR  OF 
THE  CROSS-CUT,  ETC. 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 

ANTON  OTTO  FISCHER 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 

Made  b  the  United  States  of  America 


Copyright,  198S, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  Rights  Reserved 

Published  February,  1922 
Reprinted    March,    1922 


PMBTBD  m  THE  UNITED  STATSB  or  JLmttmt 


To  a  Certain  Little  Gray  Lady 

who  seems  to  like  everything 

I  write,  the  main  reason  being 

the  fact  that  she  is 

MY  MOTHER 


M18084; 


THE  WHITE  DESERT 

CHAPTER  X    ;..  :    :.;:.;; 

It  was  early  afternoon.  Near  by,  the  smaller  hills 
shimmered  in  the  radiant  warmth  of  late  spring, 
the  brownness  of  their  foliage  and  boulders  merg- 
ing gradually  upward  to  the  green  of  the  spruces 
and  pines  of  the  higher  mountains,  which  in  turn 
gave  way  before  the  somber  blacks  and  whites  of 
the  main  range,  where  yet  the  snow  lingered  from 
the  clutch  of  winter,  where  the  streams  ran  brown 
with  the  down-flow  of  the  continental  divide,  where 
every  cluster  of  mountain  foliage  sheltered  a  mound 
of  white,  in  jealous  conflict  with  the  sun.  The 
mountains  are  tenacious  of  their  vicious  traits ;  they 
cling  to  the  snow  and  cold  and  ice  long  after  the 
seasons  have  denoted  a  time  of  warmth  and  sum- 
mer's splendor ;  the  columbine  often  blooms  beside 
a  ten-foot  drift. 

But  down  in  the  hollow  which  shielded  the  scram- 
bling little  town  of  Dominion,  the  air  was  warm  and 
lazy  with  the  friendliness  of  May.  Far  off,  along 
the  course  of  the  tumbling  stream,  turbulentfy 
striving  to  care  for  far  more  than  its  share  of  the 
melt-water  of  the  hills,  a  jaybird  called  raucously 
as  though  in  an  effort  to  drown  the  sweeter,  softer 


8  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

notes  of  a  robin  nesting  in  the  new-green  of  a  quak- 
ing aspen.  At  the  hitching  post  before  the  one  tiny 
store,  an  old  horse  nodded  and  blinked, — as  did 
the  sprawled  figure  beside  the  ramshackle  motor- 
filling  station,  just  opened  after  the  snow-bound 
months  of  winter.  Then  five  minutes  of  absolute 
peace  ensued,  except  for  the  buzzing  of  an  investi- 
gative bottle-fly  before  the  figure  shuffled,  stretched, 
and  raising  his  head,  looked  down  the  road. 
From  the  distance  had  come  the  whirring  sound 
of  a  motor,  the  forerunner  of  a  possible  cus- 
tomer. In  the  hills,  an  automobile  speaks  before 
it  is  seen. 

Long  moments  of  throbbing  echoes;  then  the  car 
appeared,  a  mile  or  so  down  the  canon,  twisting 
along  the  rocky  walls  which  rose  sheer  from  the 
road,  threading  the  innumerable  bridges  which 
spanned  the  little  stream,  at  last  to  break  forth  into 
the  open  country  and  roar  on  toward  Dominion. 
The  drowsy  gasoline  tender  rose.  A  moment  more 
and  a  long,  sleek,  yellow  racer  had  come  to  a  stop 
beside  the  gas  tank,  chortled  with  greater  reverbera- 
tion than  ever  as  the  throttle  was  thrown  open,  then 
wheezed  into  silence  with  the  cutting  off  of  the  igni- 
tion. A  young  man  rose  from  his  almost  flat  posi- 
tion in  the  low-slung  driver's  seat  and  crawling  over 
the  side,  stretched  himself,  meanwhile  staring  up- 
ward toward  the  glaring  white  of  Mount  Taluchen, 
the  highest  peak  of  the  continental  backbone, 
frowning  in  the  coldness  of  snows  that  never  de- 
parted. The  villager  moved  closer. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  8 

"Gas?" 

"Yep."  The  young  man  stretched  again. 
"Fill  up  the  tank — and  better  give  me  half  a  gallon 
of  oil." 

Then  he  turned  away  once  more,  to  stare  again  at 
the  great,  tumbled  stretches  of  granite,  the  long 
spaces  of  green-black  pines,  showing  in  the  distance 
like  so  many  upright  fronds  of  some  strange,  mossy 
fern;  at  the  blank  spaces,  where  cold  stone  and 
shifting  shale  had  made  jagged  marks  of  bareness 
in  the  masses  of  evergreen,  then  on  to  the  last 
gnarled  bulwarks  of  foliage,  struggling  bravely,  al- 
most desperately,  to  hold  on  to  life  where  life  was 
impossible,  the  dividing  line,  as  sharp  as  a  knife- 
thrust,  between  the  region  where  trees  may  grow 
and  snows  may  hide  beneath  their  protecting 
boughs  and  the  desolate,  barren,  rocky,  forbidding 
waste  of  "timber  line." 

Young  he  was,  almost  boyish ;  yet  counterbalanc- 
ing this  was  a  seriousness  of  expression  that  almost 
approached  somberness  as  he  stood  waiting  until 
his  machine  should  be  made  ready  for  the  continu- 
ance of  his  journey.  The  eyes  were  dark  and  lus- 
trous with  something  that  closely  approached  sor- 
row, the  lips  had  a  tightness  about  them  which  gave 
evidence  of  the  pressure  of  suffering,  all  forming 
an  expression  which  seemed  to  come  upon  him  un- 
aware, a  hidden  thing  ever  waiting  for  the  chance 
to  rise  uppermost  and  assume  command.  But  in 
a  flash  it  was  gone,  and  boyish  again,  he  had  turned, 
laughing,  to  survey  the  gas  tender* 


4  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"Did  you  speak?"  he  asked,  the  dark  eyes  twink- 
ling. The  villager  was  in  front  of  the  machine, 
staring  at  the  plate  of  the  radiator  and  scratching1 
his  head. 

"I  was  just  sayin'  I  never  seed  that  kind  o'  car 
before.  Barry  Houston,  huh?  Must  be  a  new 
make.  I—"  ' 

"Camouflage,"  laughed  the  young  man  again. 
"That's  my  name." 

"Oh,  is  it?"  and  the  villager  chuckled  with  him. 
"It  shore  had  me  guessin'  fer  a  minute.     You've 
got  th'  plate  right  where  th'  name  o'  a  car  is  plas- 
tered usually,  and  it  plum  fooled  me.     That's  your 
name,  huh?     Live  hereabouts — ?" 

The  owner  of  the  name  did  not  answer.  The 
thought  suddenly  had  come  to  him  that  once  out  of 
the  village,  that  plate  must  be  removed  and  tossed 
to  the  bottom  of  the  nearest  stream.  His  mission, 
for  a  time  at  least,  would  require  secrecy.  But  the 
villager  had  repeated  his  queston: 

"Don't  belong  around  here?" 

"I?     No,  I'm—"  then  he  hesitated. 

"Thought  maybe  you  did.  Seein'  youVe  got  a 
Colorado  license  on." 

Houston  parried,  with  a  smile. 

"Well,  this  isn't  all  of  Colorado,  you  know." 

"Guess  that's  right.  Only  it  seems  in  th'  sum- 
mer thet  it's  most  o'  it,  th'  way  th'  machines  pile 
through,  goin'  over  th'  Pass.  Where  you  headed 
for?" 

"The  same  place." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  5 

"Over  Hazard?"    The  villager  squinted.    "Over 
Hazard  Pass?     Ain't  daft,  are  you?" 

"I  hope  not.     Why?" 

"Ever  made  it  before?" 

"No." 

"And  you're  tacklin'  it  for  the  first  time  at  this 
season  o'  th'  year?" 

"Yes.     Why  not?     It's  May,  isn't  it?" 

The  villager  moved  closer,  as  though  to  gain  a 
better  sight  of  Barry  Houston's  features.  He  sur- 
veyed him  carefully,  from  the  tight-drawn  reversed 
cap  with  the  motor  goggles  resting  above  the 
young,  smooth  forehead,  to  the  quiet  elegance  of 
the  outing  clothing  and  well-shod  feet.  He  spat,< 
reflectively,  and  drew  the  back  of  a  hand  across  to- 
bacco-stained lips. 

"And  you  say  you  live  in  Colorado." 

"I  didn't  say—" 

"Well,  it  don't  make  no  difference  whether  you 
did  or  not.     I  know — you  don't.     Nobody  thet 
lives  out  here'd  try  to  make  Hazard  Pass  for  th' 
first  time  in  th'  middle  o'  May." 

"I  don't  see—  " 

"Look  up  there."  The  old  man  pointed  to  the 
splotches  of  white,  thousands  of  feet  above,  the 
swirling  clouds  which  drifted  from  the  icy  breast  of 
Mount  Taluchen,  the  mists  and  fogs  which  caressed 
the  precipices  and  rolled  through  the  valleys  created 
by  the  lesser  peaks.  "It  may  be  spring  down  here, 
boy,  but  it's  January  up  there.  They's  only  been 
two  cars  over  Hazard  since  November  and  they 


6  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

come  through  last  week.  Both  of  'em  was  old 
stagers ;  they've  been  crossin'  th'  range  for  th'  last 
ten  year.  Both  of  'em  came  through  here  lookin' 
like  icicles  <an'  swearing  t'  beat  four  o'  a  kind. 
They's  mountains  an'  mountains,  kid.  Them  up 
there's  th'  professional  kind." 

A  slight,  puzzled  frown  crossed  the  face  of 
Barry  Houston. 

"But  how  am  I  going  to  get  to  the  other  side  of 
the  range?  I'm  going  to  Tabernacle." 

"They's  a  train  runs  from  Denver,  over  Crestline. 
Look    up    there — jest    to    the    right    of  Mount 
Taluchen.     See  that  there  little  puff  o'  smoke? 
That's  it." 

"But  that'd  mean—." 

"For  you  t'  turn  around,  go  back  to  Denver, 
leave  that  there  chariot  o'  your'n  in  some  garage 
and  take  the  train  to-morrow  mornin'.  It'd  get 
you  t'  Tabernacle  some  time  in  the  afternoon." 

"When  would  I  get  there — if  I  could  make  the 
Pass  all  right?" 

"In  about  five  hours.  It's  only  fourteen  mile 
from  th'  top.  But—" 

"And  you  say  two  other  cars  have  gone 
through?" 

"Yep.     But  they  knowed  every  crook  an'  turn!" 

For  a  long  moment,  the  young  man  made  no 
reply.  His  eyes  were  again  on  the  hills  and  gleam- 
ing with  a  sudden  fascination.  From  far  above, 
they  seemed  to  call  to  him,  to  taunt  him  with  their 
imperiousness,  to  challenge  him  and  the  low-slung 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  7 

high-powered  car  to  the  combat  of  gravitation  and 
the  elements.  The  bleak  walls  of  granite  appeared 
to  glower  at  him,  as  though  daring  him  to  attempt 
their  conquest;  the  smooth  stretches  of  pines  were 
alluring  things,  promising  peace  and  quiet  and  con- 
tentment,— will-o-the-wisps,  which  spoke  only 
their  beauty,  and  which  said  nothing  of  the  long 
stretches  of  gravelly  mire  and  puddles,  resultant 
from  the  slowly  melting  snows.  The  swirling 
clouds,  the  mists,  the  drifting  fogs  all  appeared 
to  await  him,  like  the  gathered  hosts  of  some  mighty 
army,  suddenly  peaceful  until  the  call  of  combat. 
A  thrill  shot  through  Barry  Houston.  His  life 
had  been  that  of  the  smooth  spaces,  of  the  easy 
ascent  of  well-paved  grades,  of  streets  and  com- 
forts and  of  luxuries-  The  very  raggedness  of 
the  thing  before  him  lured  him  and  drew  him  on. 
He  turned,  he  smiled,  with  a  quiet,  determined  ex- 
pression of  anticipation,  yet  of  grimness. 

"They've  got  me,"  came  quietly.  "I'm — I'm 
going  to  make  the  try !" 

The  villager  grunted.  His  lips  parted  as  though 
to  issue  a  final  warning.  Then,  with  a  disgruntled 
shake  of  the  head,  he  turned  away. 

"Ain't  no  use  arguin'  with  you  Easterners," 
came  at  last.  "You  come  out  here  an'  take  one 
look  at  these  here  hills  an'  think  you  can  beat  Ole 
Lady  Nature  when  she's  sittin'  pat  with  a  royal 
flush.  But  go  on — I  ain't  tryin'  t'  stop  you. 
'Twouldn't  be  nothin'  but  a  waste  o'  breath. 
You've  got  this  here  conquerm'  spirit  in  your  blood 


8  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

— won't  be  satisfied  till  you  get  it  out.     You're 
all  th'  same — I  Ve  seen  fellows  with  flivvers  loaded 
down  till  th'  springs  was  flat,  look  up  at  them  hills 
an'  figure  t'  get  over  an'  back  in  time  for  supper. 
So  go  on — only  jis'  remember  this:    once  you  get 
outside  of  Dominion  an'  start  up  th'  grade,  there 
ain't  no  way  stations,  an'  there  ain't  no  telephones, 
ner  diner  service,  ner  somebody  t'  bring  y'  th' 
evenin'  paper.     You're  buckin'  a  brace  game  when 
y'  go  against  Hazard  Pass  at  a  time  when  she  ain't 
in  a  mood  f'r  comp'ny.     She  holds  all  th'  cards, 
jis'  remember  that — an'  a  few  thet  ain't  in  th' 
deck.     But  jis'  th'  same,"  he  backed  away  as  Barry 
stepped  into  the  racer  and  pressed  a  foot  on  the 
starter,  "I'm  wishin'  you  luck.       You'll  need  it." 

"Thanks !"  Houston  laughed  with  a  new  exhila- 
ration, a  new  spirit  of  desire.  "It  can't  do  any 
more  than  kill  me." 

"Nope."  The  villager  was  shouting  now  above 
the  exhaust  of  the  powerful  engine,  "But  it  shore 
can  take  a  delight  in  doin'  that!  S'  long!" 

"So  long!"  The  gears  meshed.  A  stream  of 
smoke  from  the  new  oil  spat  out  for  a  second. 
Then,  roaring  and  chortling  with  the  beginning 
of  battle,  the  machine  swept  away  toward  the 
slight  turn  that  indicated  the  scraggly  end  of  the 
little  town  of  Dominion,  and  the  beginning  of  the 
first  grade. 

The  exhilaration  still  was  upon  Barry  Houston, 
He  whistled  and  sang,  turning  now  and  then  to 
view  the  bright  greenness  of  the  new-leafed  aspens, 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  9 

to  watch  the  circling  sallies  of  the  jaybirds,  or  to 
stare  ahead  to  where  the  blues  and  greens  and  pur- 
ples of  the  foliage  and  rocks  merged  in  the  distance. 
The  grade  was  yet  easy  and  there  was  no  evidence 
of  strain  upon  the  engine;  the  tiny  rivulets  which 
ran  along  the  slight  ruts  at  each  side  of  the  road  be- 
tokened nothing  to  him  save  the  slight  possibility 
of  chains,  should  a  muddy  stretch  of  straightaway 
road  appear  later  on.  But  as  yet,  that  had  not  oc- 
curred, and  Barry  was  living  for  the  moment. 

The  road  began  to  twist  slightly,  with  short  raises 
and  shorter  level  stretches  winding  among  the  as- 
pens and  spruces,  with  sudden,  jagged  turns  about 
heavy,  frowning  boulders  whose  jutting  noses 
seemed  to  scrape  the  fenders  of  the  car,  only  to  miss 
them  by  the  barest  part  of  an  inch.  Suddenly 
Barry  found  himself  bending  forward,  eyes  still  on 
the  road  in  spite  of  his  half -turned  head,  ears  strain- 
ing to  catch  the  slightest  variation  of  the  motor.  It 
seemed  to  be  straining, — yet  the  long,  suddenly 
straight  stretch  of  road  ahead  of  him  seemed  per- 
fectly level;  downhill  if  anything.  More  and  more 
labored  became  the  engine.  Barry  stopped,  and 
lifting  the  hood,  examined  the  carbureter.  With 
the  motor  idling,  it  seemed  perfect.  Once  more  he 
started, — only  to  stop  again  and  anxiously  survey 
the  ignition,  test  the  spark  plugs  and  again  inquire 
into  the  activities  of  the  carbureter.  At  last,  reas- 
sured, he  walked  to  the  front  of  the  machine,  and 
with  the  screwdriver  pried  the  name  plate  from  its 
position  on  the  radiator  and  tossed  it  into  the  turn- 


10  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

bling,  yellow  stream  beside  the  road.  Then  he 
turned  back  to  the  machine, — only  to  stop  suddenly 
and  blink  with  surprise.  The  road  was  not  level! 
The  illusion  which  comes  to  one  at  the  first  effort  to 
conquer  a  mountain  grade  had  faded  now.  A  few 
feet  away  was  a  deserted  cabin,  built  upon  a  level 
plot  of  ground  and  giving  to  Barry  a  chance  for 
comparison,  and  he  could  see  that  his  motor  had  not 
been  at  fault.  Now  the  road,  to  his  suddenly  com- 
prehending eyes,  rose  before  him  in  a  long,  steady 
sweep  of  difficult  grades,  upward,  steadily  upward, 
with  never  a  varying  downfall,  with  never  a  rest  for 
the  motor  which  must  climb  it.  And  this  was  just 
the  beginning!  For  Barry  could  see  beyond. 

Far  in  the  distance  he  could  make  it  out,  a  twist- 
ing, turning,  almost  writhing  thing,  cutting  into  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  a  jagged  scar,  searing  its  way 
up  the  range  in  flights  that  seemed  at  times  to  run 
almost  perpendicular  and  which  faded,  only  to  re- 
appear again,  like  the  trail  of  some  gigantic  cut- 
worm, mark  above  mark,  as  it  circled  the  smaller 
hills,  cut  into  the  higher  ones,  was  lost  at  the  edge  of 
some  great  beetling  rock,  only  to  reappear  once 
more,  hundreds  of  feet  overhead.  The  eyes  of 
Barry  Houston  grew  suddenly  serious.  He  reached 
into  the  toolbox,  and  bringing  forth  the  jack,  af- 
fixed the  chains,  forgetting  his  usually  cheery 
whistle,  forgetting  even  to  take  notice  when  an  in- 
vestigative jay  scrambled  out  upon  a  dead  aspen 
branch  and  chattered  at  him.  The  true  meaning  of 
the  villager's  words  had  come  at  last.  The  moun- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  11 

tains  were  frowning  now,  instead  of  beckoning, 
glowering  instead  of  promising,  threatening  instead 
of  luring.  One  by  one  he  locked  the  chains  into 
place,  and  tossing  the  jack  once  more  into  the  tool- 
box, resumed  his  place  at  the  wheel. 

"A  six  per  cent,  grade  if  it's  an  inch!"  he  mur- 
mured. "And  this  is  only  the  beginning.  Wonder 
what  I'm  stepping  i*ito?" 

The  answer  came  almost  before  the  machine  had 
warmed  into  action.    Once  more  the  engine  labored ; 
nor  was  it  until  Barry  had  answered  its  gasp- 
ing plea  by  a  shift  to  second  gear  that  it  strength- 
ened again.     The  grade  was  growing  heavier ;  once 
Barry  turned  his  head  and  stared  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  far  beneath  him  a  few  tiny  buildings  dot- 
ted what  seemed  to  be  a  space  of  ground  as  level  as 
a  floor.    Dominion!    And  he  had  barely  passed 
outside  its  environs! 

He  settled  more  firmly  in  his  seat  and  gripped 
hard  at  the  steering  wheel.  The  turns  had  become 
shorter;  more,  Barry  found  himself  righting  the 
machine  with  sudden  jerks  as  the  car  rounded  the 
short  curves  where  the  front  wheels  seemed  to  hang 
momentarily  above  oblivion,  as  the  chasms  stretched 
away  to  seemingly  bottomless  depths  beneath. 
Gradually,  the  severity  of  the  grade  had  increased 
to  ten,  to  twelve  and  in  short  pitches  to  even  eight- 
een and  twenty  per  cent!  For  a  time  the  machine 
sang  along  in  second,  bucking  the  raises  with  almost 
human  persistence,  finally,  however,  to  gasp  and 
break  in  the  smooth  monotony  of  the  exhaust,  to 


12  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

miss,  to  strain  and  struggle  vainly,  then  to  thunder 
on  once  more,  as  Houston  pressed  the  gears  into 
low  and  began  to  watch  the  motormeter  with  anx- 
ious eyes.  The  mercury  was  rising;  another  half- 
hour  and  the  swish  of  steam  told  of  a  boiling 
radiator. 

A  stop,  while  the  red,  hissing  water  splattered 
from  the  radiator  cock,  and  the  lifted  hood  gave 
the  machine  a  chance  to  cool  before  replenishment 
came  from  the  murky,  discolored  stream  of  melted 
snow  water  which  churned  beneath  a  sapling  bridge. 
Panting  and  light-headed  from  the  altitude,  Barry 
leaned  against  the  machine  for  a  moment,  then  sud- 
denly straightened  to  draw  his  coat  tighter  about 
him  and  to  raise  the  collar  about  his  neck.  The 
wind,  whistling  down  from  above,  was  cold:  some- 
thing touched  his  face  and  melted  there, — srrow! 

The  engine  was  cool  now.  Barry  leaped  to  the 
wheel  and  once  more  began  his  struggle  upward, 
a  new  seriousness  upon  him,  a  new  grimness  appar- 
ent in  the  tightness  of  his  lips.  The  tiny  rivulets  of 
the  road  had  given  place  to  gushing  streams;  here 
and  there  a  patch  of  snow  appeared  in  the  highway; 
farther  above,  Barry  could  see  that  the  white  was 
unbroken,  save  for  the  half -erased  marks  of  the 
two  cars  which  had  made  the  journey  before  him. 
The  motor,  like  some  refreshed  animal,  roared  with 
a  new  power  and  new  energy,  vibrant,  confident, 
but  the  spirit  was  not  echoed  by  the  man  at  the 
wheel.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  a  fight  that  was  new 
to  him,  a  struggle  against  one  of  the  mightiest 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  13 

things  that  Nature  can  know,  the  backbone  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains, — a  backbone  which  leered 
above  him  in  threatening,  vicious  coldness,  which  no- 
where held  surcease;  it  must  be  a  battle  to  the  end! 

Up — up — up — the  grades  growing  steadily 
heavier,  the  shifting  clouds  enveloping  him  and 
causing  him  to  stop  at  intervals  and  wait  in  shiver- 
ing impatience  until  they  should  clear  and  allow  him 
once  more  to  continue  the  struggle.  Grayness  and 
sunshine  flitted  about  him;  one  moment  his  head  was 
bowed  against  the  sweep  of  a  snow  flurry,  driving 
straight  against  him  from  the  higher  peaks,  the  next 
the  brilliance  of  mountain  sunshine  radiated  about 
him,  cheering  him,  exhilarating  him,  only  to  give 
way  to  the  dimness  of  damp,  drifting  mists,  which 
closed  in  upon  him  like  some  great,  gray  garment 
of  distress  and  held  him  in  its  gloomy  clutch  until 
the  grade  should  carry  him  above  it  and  into  the 
sun  or  snow  again. 

Higher!  The  machine  was  roaring  like  a  des- 
perate, cornered  thing  now;  its  crawling  pace  slack- 
ening with  the  steeper  inclines,  gaining  with  the  les- 
ser raises,  then  settling  once  more  to  the  lagging 
pace  as  steepness  followed  steepness,  or  the  abrupt- 
ness of  the  curve  caused  the  great,  slow-moving 
vehicle  to  lose  the  momentum  gained  after  hun- 
dreds of  feet  of  struggle.  Again  the  engine  boiled, 
and  Barry  stood  beside  it  in  shivering  gratitude  for 
its  warmth.  The  hills  about  him  were  white  now; 
the  pines  had  lost  their  greenness  to  become  black 
silhouettes  against  the  blank,  colorless  background 


U  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

Barry  Houston  had  left  May  and  warmth  and 
springtime  behind,  to  give  way  to  the  clutch  of 
winter  and  the  white  desert  of  altitude. 

But  withal  it  was  beautiful.  Cold,  harassed  by 
dangers  that  he  never  before  knew  could  exist,  dis- 
heartened by  the  even  more  precipitous  trail  which 
lay  ahead,  fighting  a  battle  for  which  he  was  unfit- 
ted by  experience,  Houston  could  not  help  but  feel 
repaid  for  it  all  as  he  flattened  his  back  against  the 
hot  radiator  and,  comforted  by  the  warmth,  looked 
about  him.  The  world  was  his — his  to  look  upon, 
to  dissect,  to  survey  with  the  all-seeing  eyes  of  tre- 
mendous heights,  to  view  in  the  perspective  of  the 
eagle  and  the  hawk,  to  look  down  upon  from  the 
pinnacles  and  see,  even  as  a  god  might  see  it.  Far 
below  lay  a  tiny,  discolored  ribbon, — the  road  which 
he  had  traversed,  but  now  only  a  scratch  upon  the 
expanse  of  the  great  country  which  tumbled  away 
beneath  him.  Hills  had  become  hummocks,  tower- 
ing pines  but  blades  of  grass,  streams  only  a  varie- 
gated line  in  the  vast  display  of  Nature's  artistry. 
And  above — 

Barry  Houston  looked  upon  it  with  dazzled  eyes. 
The  sun  had  broken  forth  again,  to  stream  upon  the 
great,  rounded  head  of  Mount  Taluchen,  and  there 
to  turn  the  serried  snows  to  a  mass  of  shell-pink 
pearl,  to  smooth  away  the  glaring  whiteness  and 
paint  instead  a  down-like  coverlet  of  beauty.  Here 
and  there  the  great  granite  precipices  stood  forth 
in  old  rose  and  royal  purple;  farther  the  shadows 
melted  into  mantles,  not  of  black,  but  of  softest 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  15 

lavender;  mound  upon  mound  of  color  swung  be- 
fore him  as  he  glanced  from  peak  to  peak, — the 
colors  that  only  an  artist  knows,  tintings  instead  of 
solid  grounds,  suggestions  rather  than  actualities. 
Even  the  gnarled  pines  of  timber  line,  where  the 
world  of  vegetation,  was  sliced  off  short  to  give  way 
to  the  barrenness  of  the  white  desert,  seemed  sof- 
tened and  freed  from  their  appearance  of  constant 
suffering  in  the  pursuit  of  life.  A  lake  gleamed, 
set,  it  seemed,  at  an  upright  angle  upon  the  very 
side  of  a  mountain ;  an  ice  gorge  glistened  with  the 
scintillation  of  a  million  jewels,  a  cloud  rolled 
through  a  great  crevice  like  the  billowing  of  some 
soft-colored  crepe  and  then — 

Barry  crouched  and  shivered,  then  turned  with 
sudden  activity.  It  all  had  faded,  faded  in  the 
blast  of  a  shrilling  wind,  bringing  upon  its  breast 
the  cutting  assault  of  sleet  and  the  softer,  yet  no 
less  vicious  swirl  of  snow.  Quickly  the  radiator 
was  drained  and  refilled.  Once  more,  huddled  ins 
the  driver's  seat,  Barry  Houston  gripped  the  wheel 
and  felt  the  crunching  of  the  chain-clad  wheels  in 
the  snow  of  the  roadway.  The  mountains  had 
lured  again,  only  that  they  might  clutch  him  in  a 
tighter  embrace  of  danger  than  ever.  Now  the 
snow  was  whirling  about  him  in  almost  blinding 
swiftness ;  the  small  windshield  counted  for  nothing 
it  was  only  by  leaning  far  outside  the  car  that  he 
could  see  to  drive  and  then  there  were  moments  thai 
seemed  to  presage  the  end. 

Chasms  lurked  at  the  corners,  the  car  skidded  and 


16  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

lurched  from  one  side  of  the  narrow  roadway  to  the 
other ;  -once  the  embankment  crumbled  for  an  in- 
stant as  a  rear  wheel  raced  for  a  foothold  and  gained 
it  just  in  time.  Thundering  below,  Barry  could 
hear  the  descent  of  the  dirt  and  small  boulders  as 
they  struck  against  protruding  rocks  and  echoed 
forth  to  a  constantly  growing  sound  that  seemed  to 
travel  for  miles  that  it  might  return  with  the 
strength  of  thunder.  Then  for  a  moment  the  sun 
came  again  and  he  stared  toward  it  with  set,  anx- 
ious eyes.  It  no  longer  was  dazzling;  it  was  large 
and  yellow  and  free  from  glare.  He  swerved  his 
gaze  swiftly  to  the  dashboard  clock,  then  back  to 
the  sun  again.  Four  o'clock!  Yet  the  great  yel- 
low ball  was  hovering  on  the  brim  of  Mount  Talu- 
chen;  dusk  was  coming.  A  frightened  glance 
showed  him  the  black  shadows  of  the  valleys,  the 
deeper  tones  of  coloring,  the  vagueness  of  the  dis- 
tance which  comes  with  the  end  of  day. 

Anxiously  he  studied  his  speedometer  as  the  road 
stretched  out  for  a  space  of  a  few  hundred  feet  for 
safety.  Five  miles — only  five  miles  in  a  space  of 
time  that  on  level  country  could  have  accounted  for 
a  hundred.  Five  miles  and  the  route  book  told 
plainly  that  there  were  four  more  to  go  before  the 
summit  was  reached.  Anxiously — with  a  sudden 
hope — he  watched  the  instrument,  with  the  thought 
that  perhaps  it  had  broken,  but  the  slow  progress  of 
the  mile-tenths  took  away  that  possibility.  He 
veered  his  gaze  along  the  dashboard,  suddenly  to 
center  it  upon  the  oil  gauge.  His  j  aw  sagged.  He 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  1? 

pressed  harder  upon  the  accelerator  in  a  vain  effort. 
But  the  gauge  showed  no  indication  that  the  change 
of  speed  had  been  felt. 

"The  oil  pump 1"  came  with  a  half  gasp.     "It's 
broken — I'll  have  to — " 

The  sentence  was  not  finished.     A  sudden,  clat- 
tering roar  had  come  from  beneath  the  hood,  a 
clanking  jangle  which  told  him  that  his  eyes  had 
sought   the   oil   gauge   too   late, — the   shattering, 
agonizing  cacophony  of  a  broken  connecting  rod, 
the  inevitable  result  of  a  missing  oil  supply  and  its 
consequent  burnt  bearing.     Hopelessly,  dejectedly 
Barry  shut  off  the  engine  and  pulled  to  one  side  of 
the  road, — through  sheer  force  of  habit.     In  his 
heart  he  knew  that  there  could  be  no  remedy  for  the 
clattering  remonstrance  of  the  broken  rod,  that  the 
road  was  his  without  question,  that  it  was  beyond 
hope  to  look  for  aid  up  here  where  all  the  world  was 
pines  and  precipices  and  driven  snow,  that  he  must 
go  on,  fighting  against  heavier  odds  than  ever. 
And  as  he  realized  the  inevitable,  his  dull,  tired  eyes 
saw  from  the  distance  another,  a  greater  enemy 
creeping  toward  him  over  the  hills  and  ice  gorges, 
through  the  valleys  and  along  the  sheer  walls  of 
granite.     The  last,  ruddy  rim  of  a  dying  sun  was 
just  disappearing  over  Mount  Taluchen. 


CHAPTER  II 

Hazard  Pass  had  held  true  to  its  name.  There 
were  yet  nearly  four  miles  to  go  before  the  summit 
of  nearly  twelve  thousand  feet  elevation  could  be 
reached  and  the  downward  trip  of  fourteen  miles  to 
the  nearest  settlement  made.  And  that  meant — 

Houston  steadied  himself  and  sought  to  figure 
just  what  it  did  mean.  The  sun  was  gone  now, 
leaving  grayness  and  blackness  behind,  accentuated 
by  the  single  strip  of  gleaming  scarlet  which  flashed 
across  the  sky  above  the  brim  of  Mount  Taluchen, 
the  last  vestige  of  daylight.  The  wind  was  grow- 
ing shriller  and  sharper,  as  though  it  had  waited 
only  for  the  sinking  of  the  sun  to  loose  the  ferocity 
which  too  long  had  been  imprisoned.  Darkness 
came,  suddenly,  seeming  to  sweep  up  from  the  val- 
leys toward  the  peaks,  and  with  it  more  snow. 
Barry  accepted  the  inevitable.  He  must  go  on — 
and  that  as  swiftly  as  his  crippled  machine,  the 
darkness  and  the  twisting,  snow-laden,  treacherous 
road  would  permit. 

Once  more  at  the  wheel,  he  snapped  on  the  lights 
and  huddled  low,  to  avail  himself  of  every  possible 
bit  of  warmth  from  the  clanking,  discordant  engine. 
Slowly  the  journey  began,  the  machine  laboring 
and  thundering  with  its  added  handicap  of  a  broken 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  19 

rod  and  the  consequent  lost  power  of  one  cylinder. 
Literally  inch  by  inch  it  dragged  itself  up  the 
heavier  grades,  puffing  and  gasping  and  clanking, 
the  rattling  rod  threatening  at  every  moment  to  tear 
out  its  very  vitals.  The  heavy  smell  of  burnt  oil 
drifted  back  to  the  nostrils  of  Barry  Houston;  but 
there  was  nothing  that  he  could  do  but  grip  the 
steering  wheel  a  bit  tighter  with  his  numbed  hands, 
— «and  go  on. 

Slowly,  ever  so  slowly,  the  indicator  of  the 
speedometer  measured  off  a  mile  in  dragging  deci- 
mals. The  engine  boiled  and  Barry  stopped,  once 
more  to  huddle  against  the  radiator,  and  to  avail 
himself  of  its  warmth,  but  not  to  renew  the  water. 
No  stream  was  near;  besides,  the  cold  blast  of  the 
wind,  shrilling  through  the  open  hood,  accomplished 
the  purpose  more  easily.  Again  a  sally  and  again  a 
stop.  And  Barry  was  thankful,  as,  huddled  and 
shivering  in  his  light  clothing,  he  once  more  sought 
the  radiator.  Vaguely  there  came  to  him  the 
thought  that  he  might  spend  the  night  somewhere 
on  the  Pass  and  go  on  with  the  flush  of  morning. 
But  the  thought  vanished  as  quickly  as  it  came; 
there  was  no  shelter,  no  blankets,  nothing  but  the 
meager  warmth  of  what  fire  he  might  be  able  to 
gather,  and  that  would  fade  the  minute  he  nodded. 
Already  the  temperature  had  sunk  far  beneath  the 
freezing  point;  the  crackling  of  the  ice  in  the  gulleys 
of  the  road  fairly  shouted  the  fact  as  he  edged  back 
once  more  from  the  radiator  to  his  seat. 

An  hour — and  three  more  after  that — with  the 


20  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

consequent  stops  and  pauses,  the  slow  turns,  the 
dragging  process  up  the  steeper  inclines  of  the  road. 
A  last  final,  clattering  journey,  and  Barry  leaped 
from  the  seat  with  something  akin  to  enthusiasm. 

Through  the  swirling  snow  which  sifted  past  the 
glare  of  his  headlights,  he  could  discern  a  sign  which 
told  him  he  had  reached  the  summit,  that  he  now 
stood  at  the  literal  top  of  the  world. 

But  it  was  a  silent  world,  a  black  world,  in  which 
the  hills  about  him  were  shapeless,  dim  hulks,  where 
the  wind  whined,  where  the  snow  swept  against  his 
face  and  drifted  down  the  open  space  of  his  collar ; 
a  world  of  coldness,  of  malice,  of  icy  venom,  where 
everything  was  a  threatening  thing,  and  never  a 
cheering  aspect  except  the  fact  that  the  grades  had 
been  accomplished,  and  that  from  now  on  he  could 
progress  with  the  knowledge  that  his  engine  at  least 
need  labor  no  longer.  But  the  dangers!  Barry 
knew  that  they  had  only  begun.  The  descent 
fwould  be  as  steep  as  the  climb  he  had  just  made. 
The  progress  must  be  slower,  if  anything,  and  with 
the  compression  working  as  a  brake.  But  it  was 
at  least  progress,  and  once  more  he  started. 

The  engine  clanked  less  now,  the  air  seemed  a 
bit  warmer  with  the  down  grade,  and  Barry,  in  spite 
of  his  fatigue,  in  spite  of  the  disappointment  of  a 
disabled  car,  felt  at  least  the  joy  of  having  con- 
quered the  thing  which  had  sought  to  hold  him  back, 
the  happiness  of  having  fought  against  obstacles, 
of  having  beaten  them,  and  of  knowing  that  he  now 
was  on  the  down  trail.  The  grade  lessened  for  a 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  21 

few  hundred  feet,  and  the  machine  slowed.  Hous- 
ton pressed  on  the  clutch  pedal,  allowing  the  car  to 
coast  slowly  until  the  hill  became  steeper  again. 
Then  he  sought  once  more  to  shift  into  gear, — and 
stopped  short! 

Those  few  moments  of  coasting  had  been  enough. 
Overheated,  distended,  the  bearings  had  cooled  too 
suddenly  about  the  crank  shaft  and  frozen  there 
with  a  tightness  that  neither  the  grinding  pull  of  the 
starter  nor  the  heavy  tug  of  the  down  grade  could 
loosen.  Once  more  Barry  Houston  felt  his  heart 
sink  in  the  realization  of  a  newer,  a  greater  fore- 
boding than  ever.  A  frozen  crank  shaft  meant  that 
from  now  on  the  gears  would  be  useless.  Fourteen 
miles  of  down  grade  faced  him.  If  he  were  to  make 
them,  it  must  be  done  with  the  aid  of  brakes  alone. 
That  was  dangerous! 

He  cupped  his  hands  and  called, — in  the  vain 
hope  that  the  stories  of  Hazard  Pass  and  its  lone- 
liness might  not  be  true,  after  all.  But  the  only  an- 
swer was  the  churning  of  the  bank-full  stream  a 
hundred  yards  away,  the  thunder  of  the  wind 
through  the  pines  below,  and  the  eerie  echo  of  his 
own  voice  coming  back  to  him  through  the  snows. 
Laboriously  he  left  the  machine  and  climbed  back 
to  the  summit,  there  to  seek  out  the  little  tent  house 
he  had  seen  far  at  one  side  and  which  he  instinc- 
tively knew  to  be  the  rest  room  and  refreshment 
stand  of  the  summer  season.  But  he  found  it,  as  he 
had  feared  he  would  find  it,  a  deserted,  cold,  flap- 
ping thing,  without  a  human,  without  a  single  com- 


22  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

fort,  or  the  possibility  of  fire  or  warmth  through  the 
night.  Summer,  for  Hazard  Pass,  at  least,  still 
was  a  full  month  away.  For  a  moment  he  shivered 
within  it,  staring  about  its  bleak  interior  by  the  aid 
of  a  flickering  match.  Then  he  went  outside  again. 
It  was  only  a  shell,  only  a  hope  that  could  not  be 
realized.  It  would  be  less  of  a  hardship  to  make 
the  fight  to  reach  the  bottom  of  the  Pass  than  to  at- 
tempt to  spend  the  night  in  this  flimsy  contraption. 
In  travel  there  would  be  at  least  action,  and  Barry 
clambered  down  the  hill  to  his  machine. 

Again  he  started,  the  brake  bands  squeaking  and 
protesting,  the  machine  sloughing  dangerously  as 
now  and  again  its  sheer  weight  forced  it  forward  at 
dangerous  speeds  until  lesser  levels  could  be  reached 
and  the  hold  of  the  brake  bands  accomplish  their 
purpose  again.  Down  and  down,  the  miles  slip- 
ping away  with  far  greater  speed  than  even  Barry 
realized,  until  at  last — 

He  grasped  desperately  for  the  emergency  brake 
and  gripped  tight  upon  it,  steering  with  one  hand. 
For  five  minutes  there  had  come  the  strong  odor  of 
burning  rubber ;  the  strain  had  been  too  great,  the 
foot-brake  linings  were  gone;  everything  depended 
upon  the  emergency  nowl  And  almost  with  the 
first  strain — * 

Careening,  the  car  seemed  to  leap  beneath  him,  a 
maddened,  crazed  thing,  tired  of  the  hills,  tired  of 
the  turmoil  and  strain  of  hours  of  fighting,  racing 
with  all  the  speed  that  gravity  could  thrust  upon  it 
for  the  bottom  of  the  Pass.  The  brakes  were  gone, 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  23 

the  emergency  had  not  even  lasted  through  the  first 
hill.  Barry  Houston  was  now  a  prisoner  of  speed, 
— cramped  in  the  seat  of  a  runaway  car,  clutching 
tight  at  the  wheel,  leaning,  white,  tense-faced,  out 
into  the  snow,  as  he  struggled  to  negotiate  the 
turns,  to  hold  the  great  piece  of  runaway  machin- 
ery to  the  crusted  road  and  check  its  speed  from 
time  to  time  in  the  snowbanks. 

A  mile  more — halted  at  intervals  by  the  very 
thing  which  an  hour  or  so  before  Barry  Houston 
had  come  almost  to  hate,  the  tight-packed  banks  of 
snow — then  came  a  new  emergency.  One  chance 
was  left,  and  Barry  took  it, — the  "burring"  of  the 
gears  in  lieu  of  a  brake.  The  snow  was  fading  now, 
the  air  was  warmer ;  a  mile  or  so  more  and  he  would 
be  safe  from  that  threat  which  had  driven  him  down 
from  the  mountain  peaks, — the  possibility  of  death 
from  exposure,  had  he,  in  his  light  clothing,  attemp- 
ted to  spend  the  night  in  the  open.  If  the  burred 
gears  could  only  hold  the  car  for  a  mile  or  so  more — 

But  a  sudden,  snapping  crackle  ended  his  hope. 
The  gears  had  meshed,  and  meshing,  had  broken. 
Again  a  wild,  careening  thing,  with  no  snow  banks 
to  break  the  rush,  the  car  was  speeding  down  the 
steepest  of  the  grades  like  a  human  thing  deter- 
mined upon  self-destruction. 

A  skidding  curve,  then  a  straightaway,  while 
Barry  clung  to  the  wheel  with  fingers  that  were 
white  with  the  tightness  of  their  grip.  A  second 
turn,  while  a  wheel  hung  over  the  edge,  a  third 
and — 


24  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

The  awful,  suspended  agony  of  space.  A  cry. 
A  crash  and  a  dull,  twisting  moment  of  deadened 
suffering.  After  that — blackness.  Fifty  feet  be- 
low the  road  lay  a  broken,  crushed  piece  of  mechan- 
ism, its  wheels  still  spinning,  the  odor  of  gasoline 
heavy  about  it  from  the  broken  tank,  one  light  still 
gleaming,  like  a  blazing  eye,  one  light  that  centered 
upon  the  huddled,  crumpled  figure  of  a  man  who 
groaned  once  and  strove  vaguely,  dizzily,  to  rise, 
only  to  sink  at  last  into  unconsciousness.  Barry 
Houston  had  lost  his  fight. 

How  long  he  remained  there,  Barry  did  not 
know.  He  remembered  only  the  falling,  dizzy  mo- 
ment, the  second  or  so  of  horrible,  racking  suspense, 
when,  breathless,  unable  to  move,  he  watched  the 
twisting  rebound  of  the  machine  from  which  he  had 
been  thrown  and  sought  to  evade  it  as  it  settled, 
metal  crunching  against  metal,  for  the  last  time. 
After  that  had  come  agonized  hours  in  which  he 
knew  neither  wakef ulness  nor  the  quiet  of  total  un- 
consciousness. Then — 

Vaguely,  as  from  far  away,  he  heard  a  voice, — 
the  sort  of  a  voice  that  spelled  softness  and  gentle- 
ness. Something  touched  his  forehead  and  stroked 
it,  with  the  caress  that  only  a  woman's  hand  can 
give.  He  moved  slightly,  with  the  knowledge  that 
he  lay  no  longer  upon  the  rocky  roughness  of  a 
mountain  side,  but  upon  the  softness  of  a  bed.  A 
pillow  was  beneath  his  head.  Warm  blankets 
covered  him.  The  hand  again  lingered  on  his  fore- 
head and  was  drawn  away.  A  moment  more  and 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  25 

slowly,  wearily,  Barry  Houston  opened  his  eyes. 

It  was  the  room  of  a  mountain  cabin,  with  its 
gkiis  and  snowshoes;  with  its  rough  chinkings  in  the 
interstices  of  the  logs  which  formed  the  mainstay  of 
the  house,  with  its  f  our-paned  windows,  with  its  un- 
couthness,  yet  with  its  comfort.  Barry  noticed 
none  of  this.  His  eyes  had  centered  upon  the  form 
of  a  girl  standing  beside  the  little  window,  where 
evidently  she  had  gone  from  his  bedside. 

Fair-haired  she  was,  though  Barry  did  not  notice 
it.  Small  of  build  and  slight,  yet  vibrant  with  the 
health  and  vigor  that  is  typical  of  those  who  live  in 
the  open  places.  And  there  was  a  piquant  some- 
thing about  her  too;  just  enough  of  an  upturned 
little  nose  to  denote  the  fact  that  there  was  spirit 
and  independence  in  her  being;  dark  blue  eyes  that 
snapped  even  as  darker  eyes  snapped,  as  she  stood, 
half  turned,  looking  out  the  window,  watching  with 
evident  eagerness  the  approach  of  some  one  Barry 
could  not  see.  The  lips  carried  a  half-smile  of 
anticipation.  Barry  felt  the  instinctive  urge  to 
call  to  her,  to  raise  himself — 

He  winced  with  a  sudden  pain,  a  sharp,  yet  ach- 
ing throb  of  agony  which  involuntarily  closed  his 
eyes  and  clenched  tight  his  teeth  until  it  should  pass. 
When  he  looked  again,  she  was  gone,  and  the  open- 
ing of  a  door  in  the  next  room  told  him  where.  Al- 
most wondering,  he  turned  his  eyes  then  toward  the 
blankets  and  sought  to  move  an  arm, — only  again 
to  desist  in  pain.  He  tried  the  other,  and  it  re- 
sponded. The  covers  were  lowered,  and  Barry's 


26  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

eyes  stared  down  upon  a  bandaged,  splinted  left 
arm.     Broken. 

He  grunted  with  surprise,  then  somewhat  dog- 
gedly began  an  inspection  of  the  rest  of  his  human 
machine.  Gingerly  he  wiggled  one  toe  beneath 
the  blankets.  It  seemed  to  be  in  working  order. 
He  tried  the  others,  with  the  same  result.  Then 
followed  his  legs — and  the  glorious  knowledge  that 
they  still  were  intact.  His  one  free  hand  reached 
for  his  head  and  felt  it.  It  was  there,  plus  a  few 
bandages,  which  however,  from  their  size,  gave 
Barry  little  concern.  The  inventory  completed,  he 
turned  his  head  at  the  sound  of  a  voice — hers — call- 
ing from  the  doorway  to  some  one  without. 

"He's  getting  along  fine,  Ba'tiste."  Barry  liked 
the  tone  and  the  enthusiastic  manner  of  speaking. 
"His  fever's  gone  down.  I  should  think — " 

"Ah,  out!"  had  come  the  answer  in  booming  bass. 
"And  has  he,  what  you  say,  come  to?" 

"Not  yet.     But  I  think  he  ought  to,  soon." 

"Oui!  Heem  no  yer'  bad.  He  be  all  right  to- 
morrow." 

"That's  good.  It  frightened  me,  for  him  to  be 
unconscious  so  long.  It's  been  five  or  six  hours 
now,  hasn't  it?" 

"Lemme  see.  I  fin'  heem  six  o'clock.  Now — 
eet  is  the  noon.  Six  hour." 

"That's  long  enough.  Besides,  I  think  he's 
sleeping  now.  Come  inside  and  see —  " 

"Wait,  m'  enfant.  M'sieu  Thayer  he  come  in 
the  minute.  He  say  he  think  he  know  heem." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  27- 

The  eyes  of  Barry  Houston  suddenly  lost  their 
cfuriosty.  Thayer?  That  could  mean  only  one 
Thayer!  Barry  had  taken  particular  pains  to  keep 
from  him  the  information  that  he  was  anywhere  ex- 
cept the  East.  For  it  had  been  Fred  Thayer  who 
had  caused  Barry  to  travel  across  country  in  his 
yellow  speedster,  Thayer  who  had  farmed  the 
reason  for  the  displacement  of  that  name  plate  at 
the  beginning  of  Hazard  Pass,  Thayer  who — 

"Know  him?     Is  he  a  friend?" 
"Oui.     So  Thayer  say.     He  say  he  think  eet  is 
the  M'sieu  Houston,  who  own  the  mill." 

"Probably  coming  out  to  look  over  things,  then?" 

"Oui.  Thayer,  he  say  the  young  man  write  heem 
about  coming.  That  is  how  he  know  when  I  tell 
heem  about  picking  heem  up  from  the  machine. 
He  say  he  know  M'sieu  Houston  is  coming  by  the 
automobile." 

In  the  other  room,  Barry  Houston  blinked 
rapidly  and  frowned!.  He  had  written  Thayer 
nothing  of  the  sort.  He  had —  Suddenly  he 
stared  toward  the  ceiling  in  swift-centered  thought. 
Some  one  else  must  have  sent  the  information,  some 
one  who  wanted  Thayer  to  know  that  Barry  was  on 
the  way,  so  that  there  would  be  no  surprise  in  his 
coming,  some  one  who  realized  that  his  mission  was 
that  of  investigation! 

The  names  of  two  persons  flashed  across  his  mind, 
one  to  be  dismissed  immediately,  the  other — 

"I'll  fire  Jenkins  the  minute  I  get  back!"  came 
vindictively.  I'll— ." 


28  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

He  choked  his  words.  A  query  had  come  from 
the  next  room. 

"Was  that  heem  talking?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  He  groans  every  once  in 
a  while.  Wait— I'll  look." 

The  injured  man  closed  his  eyes  quickly,  as  he 
heard  the  girl  approach  the  door,  not  to  open  them 
until  she  had  departed.  Barry  was  thinking  and 
thinking  hard.  A  moment  later — 

"How's  the  patient?"  It  was  a  new  voice,  one 
which  Barry  Houston  remembered  from  years 
agone,  when  he,  a  wide-eyed  boy  in  his  father's 
care,  first  had  viewed  the  intricacies  of  a  mountain 
sawmill,  had  wandered  about  the  bunk  houses,  and 
ridden  the  great,  skidding  bobsleds  with  the  lumber- 
jacks in  the  spruce  forests,  on  a  never- forgotten 
trip  of  inspection.  It  was  Thayer,  the  same  Thayer 
that  he  once  had  looked  upon  with  all  the  enthusiasm 
and  pride  of  boyhood,  but  whom  he  now  viewed  with 
suspicion  and  distrust.  Thayer  had  brought  him 
out  here,  without  realizing  it.  Yet  Thayer  had 
known  that  he  was  on  the  way.  And  Thayer  must 
be  combatted — but  how?  The  voice  went  on, 
"Gained  consciousness  yet?" 

"No."     The  girl  had  answered.     "That  is- 

"Of  course,  then,  he  hasn't  been  able  to  talk. 
Pretty  sure  it's  Houston,  though.  Went  over  and 
+ook  a  look  at  the  machine.  Colorado  license  on  it, 
but  the  plates  look  pretty  new,  and  there  are  fresh 
marks  on  the  license  holders  where  others  have  been 
taken  off  recently.  Evidently  just  bought  a  Col- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  29 

orado  tag,  figuring  that  he'd  be  out  here  for  some 
time.     How'd  you  find  him?" 

The  bass  voice  of  the  man  referred  to  as  Ba'tiste 
gave  the  answer,  and  Barry  listened  with  interest. 
Evidently  he  had  struggled  to  his  feet  at  some  time 
during  the  night — though  he  could  not  remember 
it — and  striven  to  find  his  way  down  the  mountain 
side  in  the  darkness,  for  the  story  of  Ba'tiste  told 
Barry  that  he  had  found  him  just  at  dawn,  a  full 
five  hundred  yards  from  the  machine. 

"I  see  heem  move,"  the  big  voice  was  saying, 
"jus'  as  I  go  to  look  at  my  trap.  Then  Golemar 
come  beside  me  and  raise  his  hair  along  his  neck 
and  growl — r-r-r-r-r-u-u-f-f-f — like  that.  I  look 
again — it  is  jus'  at  the  dawn.  I  cannot  see  clearly. 
I  raise  my  gun  to  shoot,  and  Golemar,  he  growl 
again.  Then  I  think  eet  strange  that  the  bear  or 
whatever  he  is  do  not  move.  I  say  to  Golemar, 
'We  will  closer  go,  ne  cest  pas?'  A  step  or  two- 
then  three — but  he  do  not  move — then  pretty  soon 
I  look  again,  close.  Eet  is  a  man,  I  pick  heem 
up,  like  this — and  I  bring  heem  home.  Ne  c'est 
pas,  Medaine?" 

Her  name  was  Medaine  then.  Not  bad,  Barry 
thought.  It  rather  matched  her  hair  and  the  tilt 
of  her  nose  and  the  tone  of  her  laugh  as  she  an- 
swered : 

"I  would  say  you  carried  him  more  like  a  sack  of 
meal,  Ba'tiste.  I'm  glad  I  happened  along  when  I 
did;  you  might  have  thrown  him  over  your  shoul- 
der]" 


30  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

A  booming  laugh  answered  her  and  the  sound  of 
a  light  scuffle,  as  though  the  man  were  striving  to 
catch  the  girl  in  his  big  embrace.  But  the  cold 
voice  of  Thayer  cut  in: 

"And  he  hasn't  regained  consciousness?" 

"Not  yet.  That  is,  I  think  he's  recovered  his 
senses,  all  right,  and  fallen  immediately  into  a 
heavy  sleep." 

"Guess  I'll  go  in  and  stay  with  him  until  he 
wakes  up.  He's  my  boss,  you  know — since  the  old 
man  died.  We've  got  a  lot  of  important  things 
to  discuss.  So  if  you  don't  mind — " 

"Certainly  not."  It  was  the  girl  again.  "We'll 
go  in  with  you." 

"No,  thanks.     I  want  to  see  him  alone." 

Within  the  bedroom,  Barry  Houston  gritted 
his  teeth.  Then,  with  a  sudden  resolve,  he  rested 
his  head  again  on  the  pillow  and  closed  his  eyes  as 
the  sound  of  steps  approached.  Closer  they  came 
to  the  bed,  and  closer.  Barry  could  feel  that  the 
man  was  bending  over  him,  studying  him.  There 
came  a  murmur,  almost  whispered: 

"Wonder  what  the  damn  fool  came  out  here 
about?  Wonder  if  he's  wise?" 


CHAPTER  III 

It  was  with  an  effort  that  Houston  gave  no  in- 
dication that  he  had  heard.  Before,  there  had  been 
only  suspicions,  one  flimsy  clue  leading  to  another, 
a  building-block  process,  which,  in  its  culmination, 
had  determined  Barry  to  take  a  trip  into  the  West 
to  see  for  himself.  He  had  believed  that  it  would 
be  a  long  process,  the  finding  of  a  certain  telegram 
and  the  possibilities  which  might  ensue  if  this  bit  of 
evidence  should  turn  out  to  be  the  thing  he  had 
suspected.  He  had  not,  however,  hoped  to  have 
from  the  lips  of  the  man  himself  a  confession  that 
conditions  were  not  right  at  the  lumber  mill  of 
which  Barry  Hou'ston  now  formed  the  executive 
head;  to  receive  the  certain  statement  that  some- 
where, somehow,  something  was  wrong,  something 
which  was  working  against  the  best  interests  of  him- 
self and  the  stern  necessities  of  the  future.  But 
now — 

Thayer  had  turned  away  and  evidently  sought  a 
chair  at  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Barry  re- 
mained perfectly  still.  Five  minutes  passed.  Ten. 
There  came  no  sound  from  the  chair;  instinctively 
the  man  on  the  bed  knew  that  Thayer  was  watch- 
ing him,  waiting  for  the  first  flicker  of  an  eyelid,  the 
firsl;  evidence  of  returning  consciousness.  Five 
minutes  more  and  Barry  rewarded  the  yigil.  He 


32  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

drew  his  breath  in  a  shivering  sigh.  He  turned 
and  groaned, — quite  naturally  with  the  pain  from 
his  splintered  arm.  His  eyes  opened  slowly,  and 
he  stared  about  him,  as  though  in  non-understand- 
ing wonderment,  finally  to  center  upon  the  window 
ahead  and  retain  his  gaze  there,  oblivious  of  the  sud- 
den tensity  of  the  thin-faced  Thayer.  Barry  Hous- 
ton was  playing  for  time,  playing  a  game  of  iden- 
tities. In  the  same  room  was  a  man  he  felt  sure  to 
be  an  enemy,  a  man  who  had  in  his  care  everything 
Barry  Houston  possessed  in  the  world,  every  hope, 
every  dream,  every  chance  for  the  wiping  out  of  a 
thing  that  had  formed  a  black  blot  in  the  life  of  the 
young  man  for  two  grim  years,  and  a  man  who, 
Barry  Houston  now  felt  certain,  had  not  held  true 
to  his  trust.  Still  steadily  staring,  he  pretended 
not  to  notice  the  tall,  angular  form  of  Fred  Thayer 
as  that  person  crossed  the  brightness  of  the  window 
and  turned  toward  the  bed.  And  when  at  last  he 
did  look  up  into  the  narrow,  sunken  face,  it  was 
with  eyes  which  carried  in  them  no  light  of  friend- 
ship, nor  even  the  faintest  air  of  recognition. 
Thayer  put  forth  a  gnarled,  frost-twisted  hand. 

"Hello,  kid,"  he  announced,  his  thin  lips  twisting 
into  a  cynical  smile  that  in  days  gone  by  had  passed 
as  an  affectation.  Barry  looked  blankly  at  him. 

"Hello." 

"How'd  you  get  hurt?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Old  Man  Renaud  here  says  you  fell  over  the 
side  of  Two  Mile  Hill.  He  picked  you  up  about 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  83 

six  o'clock  this  morning.    Don't  you  remember?" 

"Remember  what?"  The  blank  look  still  re- 
mained. Thayer  moved  closer  to  the  bed  and 
bending,  stared  at  him. 

"Why,  the  accident.  I'm  Thayer,  you  know — 
Thayer,  your  manager  at  the  Empire  Lake  mill." 

"Have  I  a  manager?" 

The  thin  man  drew  back  at  this  and  stood  for  a 
moment  staring  down  at  Houston.  Then  he 
laughed  and  rubbed  his  gnarled  hands. 

"I  hope  you've  got  a  manager.  You — you 
haven't  fired  me,  have  you?" 

Barry  turned  his  head  wearily,  as  though  the  con- 
versation were  ended. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about." 

"You — don't — say,  you're  Barry  Houston,  are- 
n't you?" 

"I?    Ami?" 

"Well,  then,  who  are  you?" 

The  man  on  the  bed  smiled. 

"I'd  like  to  have  you  tell  me.  I  don't  know  my- 
self." 

"Don't  you  know  your  name?" 

"Have  I  one?" 

Thayer,  wondering  now,  drew  a  hand  across  his 
forehead  and  stood  for  a  moment  in  disconcerted 
silence.  Again  he  started  to  frame  a  question, 
only  to  desist.  Then,  hesitatingly,  he  turned  and 
walked  to  the  door. 

"Ba'tiste." 

"Ah, 


34  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"Come  in  here,  will  you?  I'm  up  against  a 
funny  proposition.  Mr.  Houston  doesn't  seem  to 
be  able  to  remember  who  he  is." 

"Ah !"  Then  came  the  sound  of  heavy  steps,  and 
Barry  glanced  toward  the  door,  to  see  framed  there 
the  gigantic  form  of  a  grinning,  bearded  man,  his 
long  arms  hanging  with  the  looseness  of  tremendous 
strength,  his  gray  eyes  gleaming  with  twinkling  in- 
terest, his  whole  being  and  build  that  of  a  great, 
good-humored,  eccentric  giant.  His  beard  was 
splotched  with  gray,  as  was  the  hair  which  hung  in 
short,  unbarbered  strands  about  his  ears.  But  the 
hint  of  age  was  nullified  by  the  cocky  angle  of  the 
blue-knit  cap  upon  his  head,  the  blazing  red  of  his 
double-breasted  pearl-buttoned  shirt,  the  flexible 
freedom  of  his  muscles  as  he  strode  within.  Beside 
him  trotted  a  great  gray  cross-breed  dog,  which  be- 
tokened collie  and  timber  wolf,  and  which  pro- 
gressed step  by  step  at  his  master's  knee.  Close  to 
the  bed  they  came,  the  great  form  bending,  the  twin- 
kling, sharp  eyes  boring  into  those  of  Houston,  un- 
til the  younger  man  gave  up  the  contest  and  turned 
his  head, — to  look  once  more  upon  the  form  of  the 
girl,  waiting  wonderingly  in  the  doorway.  Then 
the  voice  came,  rumbling,  yet  pleasant: 

"He  no  remember,  eh?" 

"No.  I  know  him  all  right.  It's  Barry  Hous- 
ton— I've  been  expecting  him,  to  drop  in  most  any 
day.  Of  course,  I  haven't  seen  him  since  he  was  a 
kid  out  here  with  his  father — but  that  doesn't  make 
any  difference.  The  family  resemblance  is  there— i 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  35 

he's  got  his  father's  eyes  and  mouth  and  nose,  and 
his  voice.  But  I  can't  get  him  to  remember  it.  He 
can't  recall  anything  about  his  fall,  or  his  name  or 
business.  I  guess  the  accident — " 

"Eet  is  the — "  Ba'tiste  was  waving  one  hand 
vaguely,  then  placing  a  finger  to  his  forehead,  in  a 
vain  struggle  for  a  word.  "Eet  is  the — what-you- 
say—" 

"Amnesia."  The  answer  had  come  quietly  from 
the  girl.  Ba'tiste  turned  excitedly. 

"Ah,  oui!  Eet  is  the  amnesia.  Many  time  I 
have  seen  it — "  he  waved  a  hand — "across  the  way, 
ne  c'est  pas?  Eet  is  when  the  mind  he  will  no  work 
— what  you  say — he  will  not  stick  on  the  job.  See 
— "  he  gesticulated  now  with  both  hands — "eet  is 
like  a  wall.  I  see  eet  with  the  shell  shock.  Eet  is 
all  the  same.  The  wall  is  knock  down — eet  will 
not  hold  together.  Blooey — "  he  waved  his  hands 
— "the  man  he  no  longer  remember!" 

This  time  the  stare  in  Barry  Houston's  eyes  was 
genuine.  To  hear  a  girl  of  the  mountains  name  a 
particular  form  of  mental  ailment,  and  then  to 
further  listen  to  that  ailment  described  in  its  symp- 
toms by  a  grinning,  bearded  giant  of  the  woods  was 
a  bit  past  the  comprehension  of  the  injured  man. 
He  had  half  expected  the  girl  to  say  "them"  and 
"that  there",  though  the  trimness  of  her  dress,  the 
smoothness  of  her  small,  well-shod  feet,  the  air  of 
refinement  which  spoke  even  before  her  lips  had 
uttered  a  word  should  have  told  him  differently. 
As  for  the  giant,  Ba'tiste,  with  his  outlandish  cloth- 


36  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

ing,  his  corduroy  trousers  and  high-laced,  hob-nailed 
boots,  his  fawning,  half-breed  dog,  his  blazing  shirt 
and  kippy  little  knit  cap,  the  surprise  was  all  the 
greater.  But  that  surprise,  it  seemed,  did  not  ex- 
tend to  the  other  listener.  Thayer  had  bobbed  his 
head  as  though  in  deference  to  an  authority.  When 
he  spoke,  Barry  thought  that  he  discerned  a  tone  of 
enthusiasm,  of  hope : 

"Do  they  ever  get  over  it?" 

"Sometime,  yes.  Sometime — no.  Eet  all  de- 
pend/' 

"Then  there  isn't  any  time  limit  on  a  thing  like 
this." 

"No.  Sometime  a  year — sometime  a  week — 
sometime  never.  It  all  depend.  Sometime  he  get 
a  shock — something  happen  quick,  sudden — blooey 
— he  come  back,  he  say  'where  am  I',  and  he  be  back 
again,  same  like  he  was  before!"  Ba'tiste  gesticu- 
lated vigorously.  Thayer  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Then  I  guess  there's  nothing  more  for  me  to  do, 
except  to  drop  in  every  few  days  and  see  how  he's 
getting  along.  You'll  take  good  care  of  him?" 

"Ah,  otti." 

"Good.  Want  to  walk  a  piece  down  the  road 
•yrith  me,  Medaine?" 

"Of  course.     It's  too  bad,  isn't  it—" 

Then  they  faded  through  the  doorway,  and 
Barry  could  hear  no  more.  But  he  found  himself 
looking  after  them,  wondering  about  many  things, 
— about  the  girl  and  her  interest  in  Fred  Thayer, 
and  whether  she  too  might  be  a  part  of  the  machin- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  37 

ery  which  he  felt  had  been  set  up  against  him ;  about 
the  big,  grinning  Ba'tiste,  who  still  remained  in  the 
room;  who  now  was  fumbling  about  with  the  bed- 
clothes at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and — 

"Ouch !    Don't— don't  do  that  I" 

Barry  suddenly  had  ceased  his  thoughts  to  jerk 
his  feet  far  up  under  the  covers,  laughing  and  chok- 
ing and  striving  to  talk  at  the  same  time.  At  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  Ba'tiste,  his  eyes  twinkling  more 
than  ever,  had  calmly  rolled  back  the  covering  and 
just  as  calmly  tickled  the  injured  man's  feet. 
More,  one  long  arm  had  outstretched  again,  as  the 
giant  once  more  reached  for  the  sole  of  a  foot,  to 
tickle  it,  then  to  stand  back  and  boom  with  laughter 
as  Barry  involuntarily  sought  to  jerk  the  point  of 
attack  out  of  the  way.  For  a  fourth  time  he  re- 
peated the  performance,  followed  by  a  fourth  out- 
Inirst  of  mirth  at  the  recoil  from  the  injured  man. 
Barry  frowned. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said  rather  caustically.  "But 
I  don't  get  the  joke." 

"Ho,  ho!"  and  Ba'tiste  turned  to  talk  to  the 
shaggy  dog  at  his  side.  "U  enfant  feels  it!  U 
enfant  feels  it!" 

"Feel  it,"  grunted  Houston.  "Of  course  I  feel 
it!  I'm  ticklish." 

"You  hear,  Golemar?"  Ba'tiste,  contorted  with 
merriment,  pointed  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  the 
bed,  "M'sieu  1'  Nobody,  heem  is  ticklish!" 

"Of  course  I'm  ticklish.  Who  isn't,  on  the  bot- 
tom of  his  feet?" 


38  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

The  statement  only  brought  a  new  outburst  from 
the  giant.  It  nettled  Houston;  further,  it  caused 
him  pain  to  be  jerking  constantly  about  the  bed  in 
an  effort  to  evade  the  tickling  touch  of  the  trapper's 
big  fingers.  Once  more  Ba'tiste  leaned  forward 
and  wiggled  his  fingers  as  if  in  preparation  for  a 
new  assault,  and  once  more  Barry  withdrew  his 
pedal  extremities  to  a  place  of  safety. 

"Please  don't,"  he  begged.  "I— I  don't  know 
what  kind  of  a  game  you're  playing — and  I'm  per- 
fectly willing  to  join  in  on  it  when  I  feel  better — • 
but  now  it  hurts  my  arm  to  be  bouncing  around  this 
way.  Maybe  this  afternoon — if  you've  got  to  play 
these  fool  games — I'll  feel  better — " 

The  thunder  of  the  other  man's  laugh  cut  him  off. 
Ba'tiste  was  now,  it  seemed,  in  a  perfect  orgy  of 
merriment.  As  though  weakened  by  his  laughter, 
he  reeled  to  the  wall  and  leaned  there,  his  big  arms 
hanging  loosely,  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks 
and  disappearing  in  the  gray  beard,  his  face  red- 
dened, his  whole  form  shaking  with  series  after 
series  of  chuckles. 

"You  hear  heem?"  he  gasped  at  the  wolf-dog. 
"M'sieu  1'  Nobody,  he  will  play  with  us  this  after- 
noon! M'sieu  1'  Ticklefoot!  That  is  heem,  my 
Golemar,  M'sieu  T  Ticklefoot!  Oh,  ho— M'sieu 
1'  Ticklefoot!" 

"What  in  thunder  is  the  big  idea?"  Barry  Hous- 
ton had  lost  his  reserve  now.  "I  want  to  be  a 
good  fellow — but  for  the  love  of  Mike  let  me  in  on 
the  joke.  I  can't  get  it.  I  don't  see  anything 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  39 

funny  in  lying  here  with  a  broken  arm  and  having 
my  feet  tickled.  Of  course,  I'm  grateful  to  you  for 
picking  me  up  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but — " 

Choking  back  the  laughter,  Ba'tiste  returned  to 
the  foot  of  the  bed  and  stood  wiping  the  tears  from 
his  eyes. 

"Pardon,  mon  ami"  came  seriously  at  last. 
"Old  Ba'teese  must  have  his  joke.  Listen,  Ba'- 
teese  tell  you  something.  You  see  people  here  to- 
day, oui,  yes?  You  see,  the  petite  Medaine?  Ah, 
oui!"  He  clustered  his  fingers  to  his  lips  and  blew 
a  kiss  toward  the  ceiling.  "She  is  the,  what-you- 
say,  fine  li'l  keed.  She  is  the — bon  bebe!  You  no 
nev'  see  her  before?" 

Barry  shook  his  head.    Ba'tiste  went  on. 

"You  see  M'sieu  Thayer?  Ow?  You  know 
fceem?" 

"No." 

"You  sure?" 

"Never  saw  him  before." 

"So?"  Batiste  grinned  and  wagged  a  finger, 
"Ba'teese  he  like  the  truth,  yes,  ow.  Ba'teese  he 
don't  get  the  truth,  he  tickle  M'sieu's  feet." 

"Now  listen!     Please—" 

"No — no !"  The  giant  waved  a  hand  in  dismissa 
of  threat.  "Old  Ba'teese,  he  still  joke.  Ba'- 
teese say  he  tell  you  something.  Eet  is  this.  You 
see  those  people?  All  right.  Bon — good.  You 
don'  know  one.  You  know  the  other.  Yes? 
Oui?  Ba'teese  not  know  why  you  do  it.  Ba'teese 
not  care.  Ba'teese  is  right — in  here."  He  patted 


40  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

his  heart  with  a  big  hand.  "But  you — you  not  tell 
the  truth.  I  know.  I  tickle  your  feet." 

"You're  crazy!" 

"So,  mebbe.  Ba'teese  have  his  trouble.  Some- 
time Ba'teese  wish  he  go  crazy — like  you  say." 

The  face  suddenly  aged.  The  twinkling  light 
left  the  eyes.  The  big  hands  knitted,  and  the  man 
was  silent  for  a  long  moment.  Then,  "But  Ba'- 
teese he  know — see?"  He  pointed  to  his  head, 
then  twisting,  ran  his  finger  down  his  spine. 
"When  eet  is  the — what-you-say,  amnesia — the 
nerve  eet  no  work  in  the  foot.  I  could  tickle, 
tickle,  tickle,  and  you  would  not  know.  But 
with  you — blooey — right  away,  you  feel.  So,  for 
some  reason,  you  are,  what-you-say? — shamming. 
But  you  are  Ba'teese'  gues'.  You  sleep  in 
Ba'teese'  bed.  You  eat  Ba'teese'  food.  So  long 
as.  that,  you  are  Ba'teese'  friend.  Ba'teese — " 
he  looked  with  quiet,  fatherly  eyes  toward  the 
young  man  on  the  bed — "shall  ask  no  question — 
and  Ba'teese  shall  tell  no  tales!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  simple  statement  of  the  gigantic  trapper 
Swept  the  confidence  from  Houston  and  left  him  at 
a  disadvantage.  His  decision  had  been  a  hasty  one, 
— a  thing  to  gain  time,  a  scheme  by  which  he  had 
felt  he  could,  at  the  proper  time,  take  Thayer  off 
his  guard  and  cause  him  to  come  into  the  open  with 
his  plans,  whatever  the'y  might  be.  Fate  had  played 
a  strange  game  with  Barry  Houston.  It  had  taken 
a  care-free,  happy-go-lucky  youth  and  turned  him 
into  a  suspicious,  distrustful  person  with  a  con- 
stantly morbid  strain  which  struggled  everlastingly 
for  supremacy  over  his  usually  cheery  grin  and 
his  naturally  optimistic  outlook  upon  life.  For 
Fate  had  allowed  Houston  to  live  the  youth  of 
his  life  in  ease  and  brightness  and  lack  of  worry, 
only  that  it  might  descend  upon  him  with  the 
greatest  cloud  that  man  can  know.  And  two 
years  of  memories,  two  years  of  bitterness,  two 
years  of  ugly  recollections  had  made  its  mark.  In 
all  his  dealings  with  Thayer,  conducted  though  they 
might  have  been  at  a  distance,  Barry  Houston 
could  not  place  his  finger  upon  one  tangible  thing 
that  would  reveal  his  crookedness.  But  he  had 
suspected;  had  come  to  investigate,  and  to  learn, 
even  before  he  was  ready  to  receive  the  information, 


42  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

that  his  suspicions  had  been,  in  some  wise  at  least, 
correct.  To  follow  those  suspicions  to  their  stop- 
ping place  Barry  had  feigned  amnesia.  And  it 
had  lasted  just  long  enough  for  this  grinning  man 
who  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  to  tickle  his  feet! 

And  how  should  that  grotesque  giant  with  his 
blazing  red  shirt  and  queer  little  cap  know  of  such 
things  as  amnesia  and  the  tracing  of  a  deadened 
nerve?  How  should  he, — then  Barry  suddenly 
tensed.  Had  it  been  a  ruse?  Was  this  man  a 
friend,  a  companion — even  an  accomplice  of  the 
thin-faced,  frost-gnarled  Thayer — and  had  his  sim- 
ple statement  been  an  effort  to  take  Barry  off  his 
guard?  If  so,  it  had  not  succeeded,  for  Barry  had 
made  no  admissions.  But  it  all  affected  him  curi- 
ously; it  nettled  him  and  puzzled  him.  For  a  long 
time  he  was  silent,  merely  staring  at  the  grinning 
features  of  Ba'tiste.  At  last: 

"I  should  think  you  would  wait  until  you  could 
consult  a  doctor  before  you'd  say  a  thing  like  that." 

"So?     It  has  been  done." 

"And  he  told  you—" 

"Nothing.     He  does  not  need  to  even  speak  to 
Ba'teese."     A  great  chuckle  shook  the  big  frame 
"Ba'teese  know  as  soon  as  V  M'sieu  Doctaire" 

"On  good  terms,  aren't  you?  When's  he  coining 
again?" 

"ParbleuF  The  big  man  snapped  his  fingers, 
"Peuff !  Like  that.  Ba'teese  call  heem,  and  he  is 
here." 

Houston  blinked.     Then,  in  spite  of  his  aching- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  43 

head,  and  the  pain  of  the  swollen,  splint-laced  arm 
he  sat  up  in  bed. 

"What  kind  of—" 

"Old  Ba'teese,  he  mus'  joke,"  came  quickly  and 
seriously  from  the  other  man.  "Ba'teese — he  is 
heem." 

"A  doctor?" 

Slowly  the  big  man  nodded.  Barry  went  on 
"I — I — didn't  know.  I  thought  you  were  just  a 
trapper.  I  wondered1 — " 

"So!    That  is  all— jus'  a  trapper." 

Quietly,  slowly,  the  big  man  turned  away  from 
the  bed  and  stood  looking  out  the  window,  the  wolf- 
dog  edging  close  to  him  as  though  in  companionship 
and  some  strange  form  of  sympathy.  There  was 
silence  for  a  long  time,  then  the  voice  of  Ba'tiste 
came  again,  but  now  it  was  soft  and  low,  addressed, 
it  seemed,  not  to  the  man  on  the  bed,  but  to  vacancy. 

"So!  Ba'teese,  he  is  only  a  trapper  now.  Ba'- 
teese, he  had  swear  he  never  again  stand  beside  a 
sick  bed.  But  you — "  and  he  turned  swiftly, 
a  broken  smile  playing  about  his  lips — "you,  mon 
ami,  you,  when  I  foun'  you  this  morning,  with  your 
head  twisted  under  your  arm,  with  the  blood  on 
your  face,  and  the  dust  and  dirt  upon  you — then 
you — you  look  like  my  Pierre!  And  I  pick  you  up 
— so!"  He  fashioned  his  arms  as  though  he  were 
holding  a  baby,  "and  I  look  at  you  and  I  say — 
'Pierre!'  Tierre!'  But  you  do  not  answer — just 
like  he  did  not  answer.  Then  I  start  back  with  you, 
and  the  way  was  rough.  I  take  you  under  one  arm 


U  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

— so.  It  was  steep.  I  must  have  one  arm  free 
Then  I  meet  Medaine,  and  she  laugh  at  me  for  the 
way  I  carry  you.  And  I  was  glad.  Eet  made  Ba'- 
teese  forget." 

"What?"  Barry  said  it  with  the  curiosity  of  a 
boy.  The  older  man  stared  hard  at  the  crazy  de- 
sign of  the  covers. 

"My  Pierre,"  came  at  last.     "And  my  Julienne 
Ba'teese,  he  is  all  alone  now.     Are  you  all  alone?" 
The  question  came  quickly.     Barry  answered  be- 
fore he  thought. 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  know — you  know  how  eet  feel.  You 
know  how  Ba'teese  think  when  he  look  out  the  win- 
dow. See?"  He  pointed,  and  Barry  raised 
himself  slightly  that  he  might  follow  the  direction 
of  the  gesture.  Faintly,  through  the  glass,  he 
could  see  something  white,  rearing  itself  in  the  shad- 
ows of  the  heavy  pines  which  fringed  the  cabin, — 
a  cross.  And  it  stood  as  the  guardian  of  a  mound 
of  earth  where  pine  boughs  had  been  placed  in 
smooth  precision,  while  a  small  vase,  half  implanted 
in  the  earth,  told  of  flowers  in  the  summer  season. 
Ba'tiste  stared  at  his  palms.  "Julienne,"  came  at 
last.  "My  wife."  Then,  with  a  sudden  impulse, 
he  swerved  about  the  bed  and  sat  down  beside  the 
sick  man.  "Ba'teese — "  he  smiled  plaintively— 
"like  to  talk  about  Pierre — and  Julienne.  Even 
though  eet  hurt." 

Barry  could  think  only  in  terms  of  triteness. 

"Have  they  been  gone  long?" 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  45 

The  big  man  counted  on  his  fingers. 

"One — two — free  year.  Before  that — bon!" 
He  kissed  his  fingers  airily.  "Old  Ba'teese,  he 
break  the  way — long  time  ago.  He  come  down 
from  Montreal,  with  his  Julienne  and  his  Pierre 
— in  his  arm,  so.  He  like  to  feel  big  and  strong 
— to  help  other  people.  So,  down  here  where  there 
were  few  he  came,  and  built  his  cabin,  with  his 
Pierre  and  his  Julienne.  And,  so  happy!  Then, 
by'm'by,  Jacques  Robinette  come  too,  with  his 
petite  Medaine — " 

"That's  the  girl  who  was  here?" 

"Ah,  oui.  I  am  I'M'sieu  Doctaire.  I  look  after 
the  sick  for  ten — twenty — thirty  mile.  Jacques 
he  have  more  head.  He  buy"  land."  A  great 
sweep  of  the  arm  seemed  to  indicate  all  outdoors. 
"Ev'where — the  pine  and  spruce,  it  was  Jacques! 
By'm'by,  he  go  on  and  leave  Medaine  alone.  Then 
she  go  'way  to  school,  but  ev'  summer  she  come  back 
and  live  in  the  big  house.  And  Ba'teese  glad — be-* 
cause  he  believe  some  day  she  love  Pierre  and  Pierra 
love  her  and — " 

Another  silence.     At  last: 

"And  then  war  came.  My  Pierre,  he  is  but 
eighteen.  But  he  go.  Ba'teese  want  him  to  go. 
Julienne,  she  say  nothing — she  cry  at  night.  But 
she  want  him  to  go  too.  Medaine,  she  tell  funny 
stories  about  her  age  and  she  go  too.  It  was 
lonely.  Ba'teese  was  big.  Ba'teese  was  strong. 
And  Julienne  say  to  him,  "You  too — you  go. 
You  may  save  a  life.  And  Ba'teese  went." 


46  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"To  France?" 

Ba'tiste  bowed  his  head. 

"Long  time  Ba'teese  look  for  his  Pierre.  Long 
time  he  look  for  Medaine.  But  no.  Then — "  his 
face  suddenly  contorted  " — one  night — in  the 
cathedral  at  St.  Menehould,  I  find  heem.  But 
Pierre  not  know  his  pere.  He  not  answer  Ba'teese 
when  he  call  'Pierre!  Pierre!'  Here,  and  here, 
and  here — "  the  big  man  pointed  to  his  breast  and 
face  and  arms — "was  the  shrapnel.  He  sigh  in  my 
arms — then  he  is  gone.  Ba'teese  ask  that  night  for 
duty  on  the  line.  He  swear  never  again  to  be 
ZJ  M'sieu  Doctaire.  All  his  life  he  help — help — help 
— but  when  the  time  come,  he  cannot  help  his  own. 
And  by'm'by,  Ba'teese  come  home — and  find  that." 

He  pointed  out  into  the  shadows  beneath  the 
pines. 

"She  had  died?" 

"Died!"  The  man's  face  had  gone  suddenly 
purple.  His  eyes  were  glaring,  his  hands  upraised 
and  clutched.  "No !  Murder !  Murder,  mon  ami! 
Murder!  Lost  Wing — he  Medaine's  Indian — he 
find  her — so !  In  a  heap  on  the  floor — and  a  bullet 
through  her  brain.  And  the  money  we  save,  the 
ten  thousan'  dollar — eet  is  gone!  Murder!" 

A  shudder  went  over  the  young  man  on  the  bed. 
His  face  blanched.  His  lips  lost  their  color.  For 
a  moment,  as  the  big  French-Canadian  bent  over 
him,  he  stared  with  glazed,  unseeing  eyes,  at  last  to 
turn  dully  at  the  sharp,  questioning  voice  of  the 
trapper : 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  47 

"Murder — you  know  murder?" 

There  was  a  long  moment  of  silence.  Then,  as 
though  with  an  effort  which  took  his  every  atom  of 
strength,  Houston  shook  himself,  as  if  to  throw 
some  hateful,  vicious  thing  from  him,  and  turned, 
with  a  parrying  question: 

"Did  you  ever  find  who  did  it?" 

"No.  But  sometime — Ba'teese  not  forget. 
Ba'teese  always  wait.  Ba'teese  always  look  for 
certain  things — that  were  in  the  deed-box.  There 
was  jewelry — Ba'teese  remember.  Sometime — " 
Then  he  switched  again.  "Why  you  look  so 
funny?  Huh?  Why  you  get  pale — ?" 

"Please — "  Barry  Houston  put  forth  a  hand. 
"Please-  Then  he  straightened.  "Ba'tiste,  I'm 
in  your  hands.  You  can  help  me,  or  you  can  harm 
me.  You  know  I  was  shamming  when  I  acted  as 
though  I  had  lost  my  identity.  Now — now  you 
know  there's  something  else.  Will  you — " 

He  ceased  suddenly  and  sank  back.  From  with- 
out there  had  come  the  sound  of  steps.  A  moment 
later,  the  door  opened,  and  shadows  of  a  man  and 
a  girl  showed  on  the  floor.  Thayer  and  Medaine 
had  returned.  Soon  they  were  in  the  room,  the  girl 
once  more  standing  in  the  doorway,  regarding 
Barry  with  a  quizzical,  half -wondering  gaze,  the 
man  coming  forward  and  placing  one  gnarled 
hand  on  the  Canadian's  shoulder,  staring  over  his 
head  down  into  the  eyes  of  the  injured  man  on 
the  bed. 

"I  couldn't  go  back  to  the  mill  without  making 


48  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

one  more  try,"  he  explained.     "Has  he  shown  any 
signs  yet?" 

Barry  watched  Ba'teese  closely.  But  the  old 
man's  face  was  a  blank. 

"Signs?     Of  what?" 

"Coming  to — remembering  who  he  is." 

"Oh."  Ba'tiste  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I 
have  give  eet  up." 

"Then—" 

"So  far  Ba'teese  is  concern',"  and  he  looked 
down  on  the  bed  with  a  glance  which  told  Barry  far 
more  than  words,  "he  is  already  name.  He  is 
M'sieu  Nobody.  I  can  get  no  more." 

Thayer  scratched  his  head.     He  turned. 

"Anyway,  I'm  going  to  make  one  more  attempt 
at  it.  See  what  you  can  do,  Medaine." 

The  girl  came  forward  then,  half  smiling,  and 
seated  herself  beside  the  bed.  She  took  Barry's 
hand  in  hers,  then  with  a  laugh  turned  to  Thayer. 

"What  shall  I  do?     Make  love  to  him?" 

"Why  not?"  It  was  old  Ba'tiste  edging  forward, 
the  twinkle  once  more  in  his  eyes.  "Bon — good! 
Make  love  to  him." 

"Do  you  suppose  it  would  help?"  The  girl  was 
truly  serious  now. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  think — "  Thayer  had  edged  forward, 
nervously.  Ba'tiste  pushed  him  gently. 

"Peuff !  And  when  did  M'sieu  Thayer  become 
V  M'sieu  Doctaire?  Ba'teese  say  ask  him  if  he  like 
you." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  49 

Medaine  laughed. 

"Do  you  like  me?" 

Brown  eyes  met  blue  eyes.  A  smile  passed  be- 
tween them.  It  was  with  an  effort  that  Houston 
remembered  that  he  was  only  playing  a  part. 

"I  certainly  do!" 

"Ask  him,  'Do  you  like  me  better  than  anybody 
you  ever — ' ' 

"What  sense  is  there  to  all  this?" 

"Blooey!  And  why  should  you  ask?  Why 
should  you  stand  with  a  frown  on  your  face? 
Peuff !  It  is  ugly  enough  already!"  To  Barry, 
it  was  quite  evident  that  there  was  some  purpose 
behind  the  actions  of  Old  Ba'tiste,  and  certainly 
more  than  mere  pleasantry  in  his  words.  "You 
ask  Medaine  to  help  Ba'teese,  and  then  facher  vous! 
Enough.  Ask  him,  Medaine." 

"But — "  the  girl  was  laughing  now,  her  eyes 
beaming,  a  slight  flush  apparent  in  her  cheeks — 
"maybe  he  doesn't  want  me  to — " 

"Oh,  but  I  do!"  There  was  something  in  the 
tone  of  Barry  Houston  which  made  the  color 
deepen.  "I— I  like  it." 

"That's  enough!"  Thayer,  black-featured,  his 
gnarled  hands  clenched  into  ugly  knots,  came  ab- 
ruptly forward.  "I  thought  this  was  a  serious 
thing;  I  didn't  know  you  were  going  to  turn  it  into 
a  burlesque!" 

"Perhaps  M'sieu  Thayer  has  studied  the  practice 
of  medicine?" 

"No.    But—" 


SO  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"Nor,  pardon,  the  practice  of  politeness.  Ba'- 
teese  will  not  need  your  help." 

"Whether  you  need  it  or  not,  I'll  come  back  when 
you're  through  with  this  infernal  horseplay.  I — ' 

"Ba'teese  choose  his  guests." 

"You  mean—" 

"Ba'teese  mean  what  he  say." 

"Very  well,  then.     Come  on,  Medaine." 

The  girl,  apparently  without  a  thought  of  the  air 
of  proprietorship  in  the  man's  tone,  rose,  only  to 
face  Ba'tiste.  The  Canadian  glowered  at  her. 

"And  are  you  chattel?"  he  stormed.  "Do  you 
stand  in  the  cup  of  his  hand  that  he  shall  tell  you 
when  to  rise  and  when  to  sit,  when  to  walk  and 
where  to  go?" 

She  turned. 

"You  were  abrupt,  Fred.  I'm  glad  Ba'tiste  re- 
minded me.  Personally,  I  don't  see  why  I  should 
have  been  drawn  into  this  at  all,  or  why  I  should  be 
made  the  butt  of  a  quarrel  over  some  one  I  never 
saw  before." 

"I'm  sorry — terribly  sorry."  Barry  was  speak- 
ing earnestly  and  holding  forth  his  hand.  "I 
shouldn't  have  answered  you  that  way — I'm — " 

"We'll  forget  it  all."*  A  flashing  smile  'had 
crossed  the  girl's  lips.  "Fred  never  knows  how  to 
take  Ba'tiste.  They're  always  quarreling  this  way. 
The  only  trouble  is  that  Fred — "  and  she  turned  to 
face  him  piquantly — "always  takes  in  the  whole 
world  when  he  gets  mad.  And  that  includes  me 
I  think,"  and  the  little  nose  took  a  more  upward 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  51 

turn  than  ever,  "that  Ba'tiste  is  entirely  right, 
Fred.  You  talked  to  me  as  though  I  were  a  sack 
of  potatoes.  I  won't  go  with  you,  and  I  won't  see 
you  until  you  can  apologize." 

"There's  nothing  to  apologize  for!" 

Thayer  jammed  on  his  hat  and  stamped  angrily 
out  the  door.  Medaine  watched  him  with  laugh- 
ing eyes. 

"He'll  write  me  a  letter  to-night,"  came  quietly. 
Then,  "Lost  Wing!" 

"Ugh!"     It  was  a  grunt  from  outside. 

"I  just  wanted  to  be  sure  you  were  there.  Call 
me  when  Mr.  Thayer  has  passed  the  ridge." 

"Ugh!" 

Medaine  turned  again  to  Ba'tiste,  a  childish 
appearance  of  confidence  in  her  eyes,  her  hand  ling- 
ering on  the  chair  by  the  bed. 

"Were  you  really  fooling,  Ba'tiste — or  shall  we 
continue?" 

"Perhaps — "  the  twinkle  still  shone  in  the  old 
man's  eyes — "but  not  now.  Perhaps — sometime. 
So  mebbe  sometime  you — " 

"Wah— hah— hai-i-e-e-e !"  The  Sioux  had 
called  from  without.  Medaine  turned. 

"When  you  need  me,  Ba'tiste,"  she  answered, 
with  a  smile  that  took  in  also  the  eager  face  on  the 
bed,  "I'll  be  glad  to  help  you.  Good-by." 

That  too  included  Barry,  and  he  answered  it  with 
alacrity.  Then  for  a  moment  after  she  had  gone, 
he  lay  scowling  at  Ba'tiste,  who  once  more,  in  a 
weakened  state  of  merriment,  had  reeled  to  the  wall, 


52  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

followed  as  usual  by  his  dog,  and  leaned  there, 
hugging  his  sides.     Barry  growled : 

"You're  a  fine  doctor!     Just  when  you  had  me 
cured,  you  quit !     I'd  forgotten  I  even  had  a  broken 


arm." 


"So?"  Ba'tiste  straightened,  "You  like  her, 
eh?  You  like  the  petite  Medaine?" 

"How  can  I  help  it?" 

"Eon!  Good!  I  like  you  to  like  Medaine. 
You  no  like  Thayer?" 

"Less  every  minute." 

''Bon!  I  no  like  heem.  He  try  to  take  Pierre's 
place  with  Medaine.  And  Pierre,  he  was  strong 
and  tall  and  straight.  Pierre,  he  could  smile — • 
bon!  Like  you  can  smile.  You  look  like  my 
Pierre!"  came  frankly. 

"Thanks,  Ba'tiste."  Barry  said  it  in  whole- 
hearted manner.  "You  don't  know  how  grateful  I 
am  for  a  little  true  friendliness." 

"Grateful?  Peuff!  You?  Bah,  you  shall  go 
back,  and  they  will  ask  who  helped  you  when  you 
were  hurt,  and  you — you  will  not  even  remember 
what  is  the  name." 

"Hardly  that."  Barry  pulled  thoughtfully  at 
the  covers.  "In  the  first  place,  I'm  not  going  back, 
and  in  the  second,  I  haven't  enough  true  friends  to 
forget  so  easily.  I — I — "  Then  his  jaw  dropped 
and  he  lay  staring  ahead,  out  to  the  shadows  beneath 
the  pines  <and  the  stalwart  cross  which  kept  watch 
there.  "I—" 

"You  act  funny  again.     You  act  like  you  act 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  53 

when  I  talk  about  my  Julienne.  Why  you  do  eet?" 
Barry  Houston  did  not  answer  at  once.  Old 
scenes  were  flooding  through  his  brain,  old  agonies 
that  reflected  themselves  upon  his  features,  old 
sorrows,  old  horrors.  His  eyes  grew  cold  and  life- 
less, his  hands  white  and  drawn,  his  features  hag- 
gard. The  chuckle  left  the  lips  of  Ba'tiste  Renaud. 
He  moved  swiftly,  almost  sinuously  to  the  bed,  and 
gripped  the  younger  man  by  his  uninjured  arm. 
His  eyes  came  close  to  Barry  Houston,  his  voice 
was  sharp,  tense,  commanding: 

"You!  Why  you  act  like  that  when  I  talk  about 
murder?  Why  you  get  pale,  huh?  Why  you  get 
pale? 


CHAPTER  V 

The  gaze  of  Ba'tiste  Renaud  was  strained  as  he 
asked  the  question,  his  manner  tense,  excited. 
Through  sheer  determination,  Barry  forced  a  smile 
and  pulled  himself  back  to  at  least  a  semblance  of 
composure. 

"Maybe  you  know  the  reason  already — through 
Thayer.  But  if  you  don't — Ba'tiste,  how  much  of 
it  do  you  mean  when  you  say  you  are  a  man's 
friend?" 

"Ba'teese  may  joke,"  came  quietly,  "but  Ba'teese 
no  lie.  You  look  like  my  Pierre — you  help  where 
it  has  been  lonesome.  You  are  my  frienV 

"Then  I  know  you  are  not  going  to  ask  me  for 
something  that  hurts  in  telling.  And  at  least, 
I  can  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  it  isn't  be- 
cause of  my  conscience!" 

Ba'tiste  was  silent  after  that,  walking  slowly 
about  the  room,  shaggy  head  bent,  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back,  studious,  as  though  striving  to 
fathom  what  had  been  on  the  man's  mind.  As  for 
Barry,  he  stared  disconsolately  at  vacancy,  living 
again  a  thing  which  he  had  striven  to  forget.  It 
had  been  forced  upon  him,  this  partial  admission  of 
a  cloud  in  the  past;  the  geniality,  the  utter  honesty, 
the  friendliness  of  the  old  French-Canadian,  the 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  55 

evident  dislike  for  a  man  whom  he,  Barry,  also 
thoroughly  distrusted,  had  lowered  the  younger 
man's  guard.  The  tragic  story  of  Pierre  and  Ju- 
lienne had  furthered  the  merest  chance  acquaintance 
into  what  seemed  the  beginning,  at  least,  of  closest 
friendship.  Houston  had  known  Ba'tiste  for  only 
a  matter  of  a  few  hours, — yet  it  seemed  months 
since  he  first  had  looked  upon  the  funny  little  blue 
cap  and  screaming  red  shirt  of  the  Canadian;  and  it 
was  evident  that  Renaud  had  felt  the  same  reaction. 
Barry  Houston,  to  this  great,  lonely  man  of  the 
hills,  looked  like  a  son  who  was  gone,  a  son  who  had 
grown  tall  and  straight  and  good  to  look  upon,  a 
son  upon  whom  the  old  man  had  looked  as  a  com- 
panion, and  a  chum  for  whom  he  had  searched  in 
every  battle-scarred  area  of  a  war-stricken  nation, 
only  to  find  him, — too  late.  And  with  this  view- 
point, there  was  no  shamming  about  the  old  man's 
expressions  of  friendship.  More,  he  took  Barry's 
admission  of  a  cloud  in  the  past  as  a  father  would 
take  it  from  a  son;  he  paced  the  floor  minute  after 
minute,  head  bowed,  gray  eyes  half  closed,  only  to 
turn  at  last  with  an  expression  which  told  Barry 
Houston  that  a  friend  was  his  for  weal  or  woe,  for 
fair  weather  or  foul,  good  or  evil. 

"Eet  is  enough!"  came  abruptly.  "There  is 
something  you  do  not  want  to  tell.  I  like  you — 
I  not  ask.  You  look  like  my  Pierre — who  could  do 
no  wrong.  So!  Bon — good!  Ba'teese  is  your 
frien'.  You  have  trouble?  Ba'teese  help." 

"I've  had  plenty  of  that,  in  the  last  two  years," 


56  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

came  quietly.  "I  think  I've  got  plenty  ahead  of 
me.  What  do  you  know  about  Thayer?" 

"He  no  good." 

"Why?" 

"Ba'teese  don'  know.  On'y  he  have  narrow  eyes 
too  close  together.  He  have  a  quirk  to  his  mouth 
Ba'teese  no  like.  He  have  habit  nev'  talkin'  about 
jhimself — he  ask  you  question  an'  tell  you  nothing. 
He  have  hatchet-face;  Ba'teese  no  like  a  man  with 
a  hatchet-face.  Beside,  he  make  love  to  Medaine!" 

Barry  laughed. 

"Evidently  that's  a  sore  spot  with  you,  Ba'tiste." 

"No.  Ba'teese  no  care.  But  if  my  Pierre  had 
live,  he  would  have  make  love  to  her.  She  would 
have  marry  him.  And  to  have  M'sieu  Thayer  take 
his  place?  No!  Mebbe—  '  he  said  it  hopefully, 
"mebbe  you  like  Medaine,  huh?" 

"I  do!     She's  pretty,  Ba'tiste." 

"Mebbe  you  make  love?" 

But  the  man  on  the  bed  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  make  love  to  anybody,  Ba'tiste.  Not 
until  I've — I've  found  something  I'm  looking  for. 
I'm  afraid  that's  a  long  way  off.  I  haven't  the 
privileges  of  most  young  fellows.  I'm  a  little — 
what  would  you  call  it — hampered  by  circumstance. 
I've — besides,  if  I  ever  do  marry,  it  won't  be  for 
love.  There's  a  girl  back  East  who  says  she  cares 
for  me,  and  who  simply  has  taken  it  for  granted 
that  I  think  the  same  way  about  her.  She  stood 
by  me — in  some  trouble.  Out  of  every  one,  she 
didn't  believe  what  they  said  about  m£.  That 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  57 

means  a  lot.  Some  way,  she  isn't  my  kind;  she  just 
doesn't  awaken  affection  on  my  part,  and  I  spend 
most  of  my  tiime  calling  myself  a  cad  over  it.  But 
she  stood  by  me — -and — I  guess  that's  all  that's 
necessary,  after  all.  When  I've  fulfilled  my  con- 
tract with  myself — if  I  ever  do — I'll  do  the  square 
thing  and  ask  her  to  marry  me." 

Ba'tiste  scowled. 

"You  dam'  fool,"  he  said.  "Buy  'em  present. 
Thank  'em,  merci  beaucoup.  But  don'  marry  'em 
unless  you  love  'em.  Ba'teese,  he  know.  Ba'- 
teese,  he  been  in  too  many  home  where  there  is  no 
love." 

"True.  But  you  don't  know  the  story  behind  it 
all,  Ba'tiste.  And  I  can't  tell  you  except  this: 
I  got  in  some  trouble.  I'd  rather  not  tell  you 
what  it  was.  It  broke  my  father's  heart — and  his 
confidence  in  me.  He — he  died  shortly  after- 
ward." 

"And  you — was  it  your  fault?" 

"If  you  never  believe  anything  else  about  me, 
Ba'tiste,  believe  this :  that  it  wasn't.  And  in  'a  way, 
it  was  proven  to  him,  before  he  went.  But  he  had 
been  embittered  then.  He  left  a  will — with  stip- 
ulations. I  was  to  have  the  land  he  owned  out  here 
at  Empire  Lake;  and  the  flume  site  leading  down 
the  right  side  of  Hawk  Creek  to  the  mill.  Some 
one  else  owns  the  other  side  of  the  lake  and  the 
land  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  stream." 

"Oui.     Medaine  Robinette." 

"Honestly?    Is  it  hers?" 


58  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"When  she  is  twenty-one.  But  go  on." 
"Father  wouldn't  leave  me  the  mill.  He  seemed 
to  have  a  notion  that  I'd  sell  it  all  off — and  he  tied 
everything  up  in  a  way  to  keep  me  from  doing  any- 
thing like  that.  The  mill  is  rented  to  me.  The 
land  is  mine,  and  I  can  do  everything  but  actually 
dispose  of  it.  But  on  top  of  that  Gome's  another 
twist:  if  I  haven't  developed  the  business  within 
five  years  into  double  what  it  wtys  at  the  peak  of  its 
best  development,  back  goes  everything  into  a  trust 
fund,  out  of  which  I  am  to  have  a  hundred  dollars 
a  month,  nothing  more.  That's  what  I'm  out  here 
for,  Ba'tiste,  to  find  out  why,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  I've  worked  day  and  night  now  for  a  year  and 
a  half,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I've  gone  out  and 
struggled  and  fought  for  contracts,  and  even  beaten 
down  the  barriers  of  dislike  and  distrust  and  suspi- 
cion to  get  business — why  I  can't  get  it!  Some- 
thing or  some  one  is  blocking  me,  and  I'm  going  to 
find  out  what  and  who  it  is!  I  think  I  know  one 
man — Thayer.  But  there  may  be  more.  That's 
why  I'm  playing  this  gajne  of  lost  identity.  I 
thought  I  could  get  out  here  and  nose  around  with- 
out him  knowing  it.  When  he  found  out  at  once 
who  I  was,  and  seemed  to  have  had  a  previous  tip 
that  I  was  coming  out  here,  I  had  to  think  fast 
and  take  the  first  scheme  that  popped  into  my  head. 
Maybe  if  I  can  play  the  game  long  enough,  it  will 
take  him  off  his  guard  and  cause  him  to  work  more 
in  the  open.  They  may  give  me  a  chance  to  know 
where  I  stand.  And  I've  got  to  know  that,  Ba'- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  59 

tiste.  Because—  '  and  his  voice  was  vibrant  with 
determination,  "I  don't  care  what  happens  to  me 
personally.  I  don't  care  whether  five  minutes 
after  I  have  made  it,  I  lose  every  cent  of  what  I 
have  worked  for.  But  I  do  care  about  this;  I'm 
going  to  make  good  to  my  father's  memory.  I'm 
going  to  be  able  to  stand  before  a  mirror  and  look 
myself  straight  in  the  eye,  knowing  that  I  bucked 
up  against  trouble,  that  it  nearly  whipped  me,  that 
it  took  the  unfairest  advantage  that  Fate  can  take 
of 'a  man  in  allowing  my  father  to  die  before  I 
could  fully  right  myself  in  his  eyes,  but  that  if  there 
is  a  Justice,  if  there  is  anything  fair  and  decent  in 
this  universe,  some  way  he'll  know,  some  way  he'll 
rest  in  peace,  with  the  understanding  that  his  son 
took  up  the  gauntlet  that  death  laid  down  for 
him,  that  he  made  the  fight,  and  that  he  won!" 

"Bon — good!  Old  Ba'tiste  leaned  over  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  "My  Pierre — he  would  talk  like 
that.  Bon!  Now — what  is  it  you  look  for?" 

"In  the  first  place,  I  want  to  know  how  so  many 
accidents  can  happen  in  a  single  plant,  just  at  the 
wrong  time.  I  want  to  know  why  it  is  that  I  can 
go  out  and  fight  for  a  contract,  and  then  lose  it  be- 
cause a  saw  has  broken,  or  an  off-bearer,  lugging 
slabs  away  from  the  big  wheel,  can  allow  one  to 
strike  at  just  the  wrong  moment  and  let  the  saw 
pick  it  up  and  drive  it  through  the  boiler,  laying  up 
the  whole  plant  for  three  weeks.  I  want  to  know 
why  it  is  that  only  about  one  out  of  three  contracts 
I  land  are  ever  filled.  Thayer's  got  something  to 


60  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

do  with  it,  I  know.  Why?  That's  another  ques- 
tion. But  there  must  be  others.  I  want  to  know 
who  they  are  and  weed  them  out.  I've  only  got 
three  and  a  half  years  left,  and  things  are  going 
backward  instead  of  forward." 

"How  you  intend  to  fin'  this  out?" 

"I  don't  know.  I've  got  one  lead — as  soon  as 
I'm  able  to  get  into  town.  That  may  give  me  a 
good  deal  of  information;  I  came  out  here,  at 
least,  in  the  hope  that  it  would.  After  that,  I'm 
hazy.  How  big  a  telegraph  office  is  there  at  Tab- 
ernacle?" 

"How  big?"  Ba'tiste  laughed.  "How  petite! 
Eet  is  about  the  size  of  the — what-you-say — the 
peanut." 

"Is  there  ever  a  time  when  the  operator  isn't 
there?" 

"At  noon.  He  go  out  to  dinner,  and  he  leave 
open  the  door.  If  eet  is  something  you  want,  walk 


in." 


"Thanks."  A  strange  eagerness  was  in  Hous- 
ton's eyes.  "I  think  I'll  be  able  to  get  up  to-mor- 
row. Maybe  I  can  walk  over  there;  it's  only  a 
mile  or  two,  isn't  it?" 

But  when  to-morrow  came,  it  found  a  white, 
bandaged  figure  sitting  weakly  in  front  of  Ba'- 
tiste's  cabin,  nothing  more.  Strength  of  purpose 
and  strength  of  being  had  proved  two  different 
things,  and  now  he  was  quite  content  to  rest  there 
in  the  May  sunshine,  to  watch  the  chattering  mag- 
pies as  they  went  about  the  work  of  spring  house- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  61 

building,  to  study  the  colors  of  the  hills,  the 
mergings  of  the  tintings  and  deeper  hues  as  the 
scale  ran  from  brown  to  green  to  blue,  and  finally 
to  the  stark  red  granite  and  snow  whites  of  Mount 
Taluchen. 

Ba'tiste  and  his  constant  companion,  Golemar, 
were  making  the  round  of  the  traps  and  had  been 
gone  for  hours.  Barry  was  alone — alone  with  the 
'beauties  of  spring  in  the  hills,  with  the  soft  call  of 
the  meadow  lark  in  the  bit  of  greenery  which 
fringed  the  still  purling  stream  in  the  little  valley, 
the  song  of  the  breeze  through  the  pines,  the  sun- 
shine, the  warmth — and  his  problems. 

Of  these,  there  were  plenty.  In  the  first  place, 
how  had  Thayer  known  that  he  was  on  the  way  from 
the  East?  He  had  spoken  to  only  two  persons, — 
Jenkins,  his  bookkeeper,  and  one  other.  To  these 
two  persons  he  merely  had  given  the  information 
that  he  was  going  West  on  a  bit  of  a  vacation.  He 
had  deliberately  chosen  to  come  in  his  car,  so  that 
there  might  be  every  indication,  should  there  be 
such  a  thing  as  a  spy  in  his  rather  diminutive  office, 
that  he  merely  intended  a  jaunt  through  a  few 
States,  certainly  not  a  journey  half  across  the  coun- 
try. But  just  the  same,  the  news  had  leaked: 
Thayer  had  been  informed,  and  his  arrival  had 
been  no  surprise. 

That  there  had  been  need  for  his  coming,  Barry 
felt  sure.  At  the  least,  there  was  mismanagement 
at  the  mill;  contract  after  contract  lost  just  when  it 
should  have  been  gained  told  him  this,  if  nothing 


62  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

more.  But — and  he  drew  a  sheet  of  yellow  paper 
from  his  pocket  and  stared  hard  at  it — there  was 
something  else,  something  which  had  aroused  his 
curiosity  to  an  extent  of  suspicion,  something  which 
might  mean  an  open  book  of  information  to  him  if 
only  he  could  reach  Tabernacle  at  the  right  mo- 
ment and  gain  access  to  the  telegraph  files  without 
the  interference  of  the  agent. 

Then  suddenly  he  ceased  his  study  of  the  message 
and  returned  it  to  his  pocket.  Two  persons  were 
approaching  the  cabin  from  the  opposite  hill, — a 
girl  whom  he  was  glad  to  see,  and  a  man  who 
walked,  or  rather  rolled,  in  the  background:  Med- 
aine  Robinette  and  a  sort  of  rear  guard  who, 
twenty  or  thirty  feet  behind  her,  followed  her  every 
step,  trotted  when  she  ran  down  the  steep  side  of  an 
embankment,  then  slowed  as  she  came  to  a  walk 
again.  A  bow-legged  creature  he  was,  with  ill-fit- 
ting clothing  and  a  broad  "two-gallon"  hat  which 
evidently  had  been  bequeathed  to  him  by  some  cow- 
puncher,  long  hair  which  straggled  over  his  shoul- 
ders, and  a  beaded  vest  which  shone  out  beneath  the 
scraggly  outer  coat  like  a  candle  on  a  dark  night. 
Instinctively  Barry  knew  him  to  be  the  grunting 
individual  who  had  waited  outside  the  door  the 
night  before, — Lost  Wing,  Medaine's  Sioux  ser- 
vant: evidently  a  self -constituted  bodyguard  who 
traveled  more  as  a  shadow  than  as  a  human  being. 
Certainly  the  girl  in  the  foreground  gave  no  indi- 
cation that  she  was  aware  of  his  presence;  nor  did 
she  seem  to  care. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  63 

Closer  she  came,  and  Barry  watched  her,  taking 
a  strange  sort  of  delight  in  the  skipping  grace  with 
which  she  negotiated  the  stepping  stones  of  the 
swollen  little  stream  which  intervened  between  her 
and  the  cabin  of  Ba'tiste  Renaud,  then  clambered 
over  the  straggling  pile  of  massed  logs  and  dead 
timber  which  strewed  the  small  stretch  of  flat 
before  the  rise  began,  leading  to  where  he  rested. 
More  like  some  graceful,  agile  boy  was  she  than  a 
girl.  Her  clothing  was  of  that  type  which  has  all 
too  soon  taken  the  place  of  the  buckskin  in  the 
West, — a  riding  habit,  with  stout  little  shoes  and 
leather  puttees;  her  hair  was  drawn  tight  upon  her 
head  and  encased  in  the  shielding  confines  of  a  cap, 
worn  low  over  her  forehead,  the  visor  pulled  aside 
by  a  jutting  twig  and  now  slanting  out  at  a  rakish 
angle ;  her  arms  full  of  something  pink  and  soft  and 
pretty.  Barry  wondered  what  it  could  be, — then 
brightened  with  sudden  hope. 

"Wonder  if  she's  bringing  them  to  me?" 

The  answer  came  a  moment  later  as  she  faced  him, 
panting  slightly  from  the  exertion  of  the  climb,  the 
natural  flush  of  exercise  heightened  by  her  evident 
embarrassment. 

"Oh,  you're  up!"  came  in  an  almost  disappointed 
manner.  Then  with  a  glance  toward  the  great 
cluster  of  wild  roses  in  her  arms,  "I  don't  know 
what  to  do  with  these  things  now." 

"Why?"  Barry's  embarrassment  was  as  great 
as  hers.  "If— if  it'll  do  any  good,  I'll  climb  back 
into  bed  again." 


64  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"No — don't.  Only  I  thought  you  were  really, 
terribly  ill  and — " 

"I  am — I  was — I  will  be.  That  is — gosh,  it's  a 
shame  for  you  to  go  out  and  pick  all  those  and  then 
have  me  sitting  up  here  as  strong  as  an  ox.  I — " 

"Oh,  don't  worry  about  that."  She  smiled  at 
him  with  that  sweetness  which  only  a  woman  can 
know  when  she  has  the  advantage.  "I  didn't  pick 
them.  Lost  Wing" — she  pointed  to  the  skulking, 
outlandishly  dressed  Indian  in  the  background — 
"attended  to  that.  I  was  going  to  send  them  over 
by  him.  But  I  didn't  have  anything  to  do,  so  I  just 
thought  I'd  bring  them  myself." 

"Thanks  for  that,  anyway.  Can't  I  keep  them 
just  the  same — to  put  on  the  table  or  something?" 

"Oh,  if  you  care  to."  Barry  felt  that  she  was 
truly  disappointed  that  he  wasn't  at  the  point  of 
death,  or  at  least  somewhere  near  it.  "Where's 
Ba'tiste." 

"Out  looking  after  his  traps,  picking  them  up  I 
think,  for  the  summer.  He'll  be  back  soon.  Is 
there—" 

"No.  I  usually  come  over  every  day  to  see  him, 
you  know."  Then  the  blue  dyes  lost  their  diffi- 
dence to  become  serious.  "Do  you  remember  yet 
who  you  are?" 

"Less  right  at  this  minute  than  at  any  other 
time!"  spoke  Barry  truthfully.  "I'm  out  of  my 
head  entirely!"  He  reached  for  the  flowers. 

"Please  don't  joke  that  way.  It's  really  serious. 
When  I  was  across — army  nursing — I  saw  a  lot  of 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  65 

just  such  cases  as  yours.  Shell  shock,  you  know. 
One  has  to  be  awfully  careful  with  it." 

"I  know.  But  I'm  getting  the  best  of  care.  I — 
ouch!"  His  interest  had  exceeded  his  caution. 
The  unbandaged  hand  had  waved  the  flowers  for 
emphasis  and  absently  gripped  the  stems.  The 
wild  roses  fluttered  to  the  ground.  "Gosh!" 
came  dolefully,  'Tm  all  full  of  thorns.  Guess  I'll 
have  to  pick  'em  out  with  my  teeth." 

"Oh!"  Then  she  picked  up  the  roses  and  laid 
them  gingerly  aside.  "You  can't  use  your  other 
hand,  can  you?" 

"Xo.     Arm's  broken." 

"Then—"  she  looked  back  toward  Lost  Wing, 
hunched  on  a  stump,  and  Barry's  heart  sank.  She 
debated  a  moment,  at  last  to  shake  her  head.  "Xo 
— he'd  want  to  dig  them  out  with  a  knife.  If  you 
don't  mind."  She  moved  toward  Houston  and 
Barry  thrust  forth  his  hand. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  he  countered  and  she  sat 
beside  him.  A  moment  later: 

"I  must  look  like  a  fortune  teller." 

"See  anything  in  my  palm  besides  thorns  ?" 

"Yes.  A  little  dirt.  Ba'tiste  evidently  isn't  a 
very  good  nurse." 

"I  did  the  best  I  could  with  one  hand.  But  I 
was  pretty  grimy.  I — I  didn't  know,"  and  Barry 
grinned  cheerfully,  "I  was  going  to  be  this  lucky." 

She  pretended  not  to  hear  the  sally.  And  in 
some  way  Barry  was  glad.  He  much  rather  would 
have  her  silent  than  making  some  flippant  remark, 


66  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

much  rather  would  he  prefer  to  lean  comfortably 
back  on  the  old  bench  and  watch  the  quiet,  almost 
childish  determination  of  her  features  as  she  sought 
for  a  grip  on  the  tiny  protuberances  of  the  thorns, 
the  soft  brownness  of  the  few  strands  of  hair  which 
strayed  from  beneath  the  boyish  cap,  the  healthy 
glow  of  her  complexion,  the  smallness  of  the  clear^ 
skinned  hands,  the  daintiness  of  the  trim  little  fig- 
ure. Much  rather  would  he  be  silent  with  the  pic- 
ture than  striving  for  answers  to  questions  that  in 
their  very  naiveness  were  an  accusation.  Quite 
suddenly  Barry  felt  cheap  and  mean  and  dishonest. 
He  felt  that  he  would  like  to  talk  about  himself, — 
about  home  and  his  reasons  for  being  out  here;  his 
hopes  for  the  mill  which  now  was  a  shambling,  un- 
profitable thing;  about  the  future  and — a  great 
many  things.  It  was  with  an  effort,  when  she 
queried  him  again  concerning  his  memory,  that  he 
still  remained  Mr.  Nobody.  Then  he  shifted  the 
conversation  'from  himself  to  her. 

"Do  you  live  out  here?" 

"Yes.  Didn't  Ba'tiste  tell  you?  My  house  is 
just  over  the  hill — you  can  just  see  one  edge  of  the 
roof  through  that  bent  aspen." 

Barry  stared. 

"I'd  noticed  that.  Thought  it  was  a  house,  but 
couldn't  be  sure.  I  thought  I  understood  Ba'tiste 
to  say  you  only  came  out  here  in  the  summer." 

"I  did  that  when  I  was  going  to  school.  Now  I 
stay  here  all  the  year  'round." 

"Isn't  it  lonely?" 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  67 

"Out  here?  With  a  hundred  kinds  of  birds  to 
keep  things  going?  With  the  trout  leaping  in  the 
streams  in  the  summer  time,  and  a  good  gun  in  the 
hollow  of  your  arm  in  the  winter?  Besides,  there's 
old  Lost  Wing  and  his  squaw,  you  know.  I  get  a 
lot  of  enjoyment  out  of  them  wjien  we're  snowed 
in — in  the  winter.  He's  told  me  fully  fifty  ver- 
sions of  how  the  Battle  of  Wounded  Knee  was 
fought,  and  as  for  Ouster's  last  battle — it's  wonder- 
ful!" 

"He  knows  all  about  it?" 

"I'd  hardly  say  that."  Medaine  re'ached  under 
her  cap  for  a  hairpin,  looked  quickly  at  Barry  as 
though  to  ask  him  whether  he  could  stand  pain, 
then  pressed  a  recalcitrant  thorn  into  a  position 
where  it  could  be  extracted.  "I  think  the  best  de- 
scription of  Lost  Wing  is  that  he's  an  admirable 
fiction  writer.  Ba'tiste  says  he  has  more  lies  than 
a  dog  has  fleas." 

"Then  it  isn't  history?" 

"Of  course  not.  Just  imagination.  But  it's 
well  done,  with  plenty  of  gestures.  He  stands  in 
front  of  the  fire  and  acts  it  all  out  while  his  squaw 
sits  on  the  floor  and  grunts  and  nods  and  wails  at 
the  right  time,  and  it's  really  entertaining.  They're 
about  a  million  years  old,  both  of  them.  My 
father  got  them  when  he  first  came  down  here  from 
Montreal.  He  wanted  Lost  Wing  as  a  sort  of 
bodyguard.  It  was  a  good  deal  wilder  in  this 
region  then  than  it  is  now,  and  father  owned  a  good 
deal  of  land." 


68  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"So  Ba'tiste  tells  me.  He  says  that  practically 
all  of  the  forests  around  here  are  yours." 

"They  will  be,  next  year,"  came  simply,  "when 
I'm—" 

She  stopped  and  laughed. 

"Ba'tiste  told  me.     Twenty-one." 

"He  never  could  keep  anything  to  himself." 

"What's  wrong  about  that?  I'm  twenty-seven 
myself." 

"Honestly?    You  don't  look  it." 

"Don't  I?  I  ought  to.  I've  got  a  beard  and 
everything.  See?"  He  pulled  his  hand  away  for 
a  moment  to  rub  the  two-days'  growth  on  his  face. 
"I  tried  to  shave  this  morning.  Couldn't  make  it. 
Ba'tiste  said  he'd  play  barber  for  me  this  afternoon. 
Next  time  you  come  over  I'll  be  all  slicked  up." 

Again  she  laughed,  and  once  more  pursued  the 
remaining  thorns. 

"How  do  you  know  there'll  be  a  next  time?" 

"If  there  isn't,  I'll  drive  nails  in  myself,  so  you'll 
have  to  pull  'em  out."  Then  seriously.  "You  do 
come  over  here  often,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course — "  then,  the  last  thorn  disposed  of, 
she  rose — "to  see  Ba'tiste.  I  look  on  him  as  a  sort 
of  a  guardian.  He  knew  my  father.  But  let's 
talk  about  yourself.  You  seem  remarkably  clear 
in  your  mind  to  be  afflicted  with  amnesia.  Are  you 
sure  you  don't  remember  anything — ?" 

"No — not  now.  But,"  and  Barry  hedged  pain- 
fully, "I  think  I  will.  It  acts  to  me  like  a  momen- 
tary thing.  Every  once  in  a  while  I  get  a  flash  as 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  69 

though  it  were  all  coming  back;  it  was  just  the 
fall,  I'm  sure  of  that.  My  head's  all  right." 

"You  mean  your  brain?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  act  crazy,  or  anything  like  that, 
do  I?" 

"Well,"  and  she  smiled  quizzically,  "of  course,  I 
don't  know  you,  so  I  have  nothing  to  go  by.  But 
I  must  admit  that  you  say  terribly  foolish  things." 

Leaving  him  to  think  over  that,  she  turned, 
laughed  a  good-by,  and  with  the  rolling,  bow-leg- 
ged old  Lost  Wing  in  her  wake,  retraced  the  path 
to  the  top  of  the  hill,  there  to  hesitate  a  moment, 
wave  her  hand  quickly,  and  then,  as  though  hurry- 
ing away  from  her  action,  disappeared.  Barry 
Houston  sat  for  a  long  time,  visualizing  her  there 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  her  head  with  its  long-vis- 
ored  cap  tilted,  her  hand  upraised,  her  trimness  and 
her  beauty  silhouetted  against  the  opalesque  sky, 
dreaming, — and  with  a  bit  of  heartache  in  it.  For 
this  sort  of  thing  had  been  his  hope  in  younger, 
fairer  days.  This  sort  of  a  being  had  been  his 
make-believe  companion  of  a  Castle  in  Spain. 
This  sort  of  a  joking,  whimsical  girl  had  been  the 
one  who  had  come  to  him  in  the  smoke  wreaths  and 
tantalized  him  and  promised  him — 

But  now,  his  life  was  gray.  His  heart  was  not 
his  own.  His  life  was  at  best  only  a  grim,  drab 
thing  of  ugly  memories  and  angered  determina- 
tions. If  a  home  should  ever  come  to  him,  it  must 
be  in  company  with  some  one  to  whom  he  owed  the 
gratitude  of  friendship  in  time  of  need;  not  love 


70  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

not  affection,  but  the  paying  of  a  debt  of  deepest 
honor.  Which  Barry  would  do,  and  faithfully 
and  honestly  and  truthfully.  As  for  the  other — 

He  leaned  against  the  bark  slabs  of  the  cabin. 
He  closed  his  eyes.  He  grinned  cheerily. 

"Well,"  came  at  last,  "there's  no  harm  in  think- 
ing about  it!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

It  was  thus  that  Ba'tiste  found  him,  still  dream- 
ing. The  big  voice  of  the  Canadian  boomed,  and 
he  reached  forward  to  nudge  Barry  on  his  injured 
shoulder. 

"And  who  has  been  bringing  you  flowers?"  he 
asked. 

"Medaine.     That  is— Miss  Robinette." 

"Medaine?  Oh,  ho!  You  hear,  Golemar?"  he 
turned  to  the  fawning  wolf-dog.  "He  calls  her 
Medaine !  Oh,  ho !  And  he  say  he  will  marry,  not 
for  love.  Peuff!  We  shall  see,  by  gar,  we  shall 
see!  Eh,  Golemar?"  Then  to  Barry,  "You  have 
sit  out  here  too  long." 

"I?  Nothing  of  the  kind.  Where's  the  axe? 
I'll  do  some  fancy  one-handed  woodchopping." 

And  while  Ba'tiste  watched,  grinning,  Barry 
went  about  his  task,  swinging  the  axe  awkwardly, 
but  whistling  with  the  joy  of  work.  Nor  did  he 
pause  to  diagnose  his  light-heartedness.  He  only 
knew  that  he  was  in  the  hills;  that  the  streets  and 
offices  and  people  of  the  cities,  and  the  memories 
that  they  carried,  had  been  left  behind  for  him 
that  he  was  in  a  new  world  to  make  a  new  fight 
and  that  he  was  strangely,  inordinately  happy 


72  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

Time  after  time  the  axe  glinted,  to  descend  upon 
the  chopping  block,  until  at  last  the  pile  of  stove- 
wood  had  reached  its  proper  dimensions,  and  old 
Ba'tiste  came  from  the  doorway  to  carry  it  in. 
Then,  half  an  hour  later,  they  sat  down  to  their  meal 
of  sizzling  bacon  and  steaming  coffee, — a  great, 
bearded  giant  and  the  younger  man  whom  he,  in 
a  moment  of  impulsiveness,  had  all  but  adopted. 
Ba'tiste  was  still  joking  about  the  visit  of  Medaine, 
Houston  parrying  his  thrusts.  The  meal  finished, 
Ba'tiste  went  forth  once  more,  to  the  hunt  of  a  bear 
trap  and  its  deadfall,  dragged  away  by  a  mountain 
lion  during  the  last  snow.  Barry  sought  again  the 
bench  outside  the  cabin,  to  sit  there  waiting  and 
hoping, — in  vain.  At  last  came  evening,  and  he 
undressed  laboriously  for  a  long  rest.  Something 
awaited  him  in  Tabernacle, — either  the  opening  of  a 
book  of  schemes,  or  at  least  the  explanation  of  a 
mystery,  and  that  meant  a  walk  of  quite  two  miles, 
the  exercise  of  muscles  which  still  ached,  the  strain- 
ing of  tendons  drawn  by  injury  and  pain.  But 
when  the  time  came,  he  was  ready. 

"Bon — good!"  came  from  Ba'tiste,  as  they 
turned  into  the  little  village  of  Tabernacle  the  next 
day,  skirted  the  two  clapboarded  stores  forming  the 
"main  business  district,"  and  edged  toward  the 
converted  box  car  that  passed  as  a  station.  "Bon 
— the  agent  he  is  leaving." 

Barry  looked  ahead,  to  see  a  man  crossing  an  ex- 
panse of  flat  country  toward  what  was  evidently  a 
boarding  house.  Ba'tiste  nudged  him. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  73 

"You  will  walk  slowly,  as  though  going  into  the 
station  to  loaf.  Ba'tiste  will  come  behind — and 
keep  watch." 

Barry  obeyed.  A  moment  more  and  he  was 
within  the  converted  box  car,  to  find  it  deserted  and 
silent,  except  for  the  constant  clackle  of  the  tele- 
graph key,  rattling  off  the  business  of  a  mountain 
railroad  system,  like  some  garrulous  old  woman,  to 
any  one  who  would  listen.  There  was  no  private 
office,  only  a  railing  and  a  counter,  which  Barry 
crossed  easily.  A  slight  crunching  of  gravel 
sounded  without.  It  was  Ba'tiste,  now  lounging  in 
the  doorway,  ready  at  a  moment  to  give  the  alarm. 
Houston  turned  hastily  toward  the  file  hook  and 
be'gan  to  turn  the  pages  of  the  original  copy  which 
hung  there. 

A  moment  of  searching  and  he  leaned  suddenly 
forward.  Messages  were  few  from  Tabernacle;  it 
had  been  an  easy  matter  for  him  to  come  upon  the 
originals  of  the  telegrams  he  sought,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  they  had  been  sent  more  than  two  weeks 
before.  Already  he  was  reading  the  first  of  the 
night  letters: 

Barry  Houston, 

Empire  Lake  Mill  and  Lumber  Co., 

212  Grand  Building,  Boston,  Mass. 
Please  order  six-foot  saw  as  before.     Present 
one  broken  to-day  through  crystallization. 

F.  B.  THAYER. 

"That's  one  of   'em."    Houston  grunted   the 


74  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

words,  rather  than  spoke  them.     "That  was  meant 
for  me  all  right — humph!" 

The  second  one  was  before  him  now,  longer  and 
far  more  interesting  to  the  man  who  bent  over  the 
telegraph  file,  while  Ba'tiste  kept  watch  at  the 
door.  Hastily  he  pulled  a  crumpled  message 
from  his  pocket  and  compared  them, — and  grunted 
again. 

"The  same  thing.  Identically  the  same  thing, 
except  for  the  addresess!  Ba'tiste,"  he  called 
softly,  "what  kind  of  an  operator  is  this  fellow?" 

"No  good.  A  boy.  Just  out  of  school.  Hasn't 
been  here  long." 

"That  explains  it."  Houston  was  talking  to 
himself  again.  "He  got  the  two  messages  and — " 
Suddenly  he  bent  forward  and  examined  a  nota- 
tion in  a  strange  hand: 

"Missent  Houston.    Resent  Blackburn." 

It  explained  much  to  Barry  Houston,  that  scrib- 
ble of  four  words.  It  told  him  why  he  had  re- 
ceived a  telegram  which  meant  nothing  to  him,  yet 
caused  suspicion  enough  for  a  two-thousand-mile 
trip.  It  explained  that  the  operator,  in  sending 
two  messages,  had,  through  absent-mindedness, 
put  them  both  on  the  wire  to  the  same  person,  when 
they  were  addressed  separately,  that  he  later  had 
seen  his  mistake  and  corrected  it.  Barry  smiled 
grimly. 

"Thanks  very  much,  Operator,"  he  murmured. 
"It  isn't  every  mistake  that  turns  out  this  lucky." 

Then  slowly,  studiously,  he  compared  the  mes- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  75 

sages  again,  the  one  he  had  received,  and  the  one  on 
the  hook  which  read: 

J.  C.  Blackburn, 

Deal  Building,  Chicago,  111. 

Our  friend  reports  Boston  deal  put  over  O.  K. 
Everything  safe.  Suggest  start  preparations  for 
operations  in  time  compete  Boston  for  the  big 
thing.  Have  Boston  where  we  want  him  and  will 
keep  him  there. 

THAYER. 

It  was  the  same  telegram  that  Barry  Houston 
had  received  and  puzzled  over  in  Boston,  except 
for  the  address.  He  had  been  right  then;  the  mes- 
sage had  not  been  for  him;  instead  it  had  been  in- 
tended decidedly  not  for  him  and  it  meant — what? 
Hastily  Houston  crawled  over  the  railing,  and 
motioning  to  Ba'tiste,  led  him  away  from  the  sta- 
tion. Around  the  corner  of  the  last  store .  he 
brought  forth  his  telegram  and  placed  it  in  the  big 
man's  hands. 

"That's  addressed  to  me, — but  it  should  have 
gone  to  some  one  else.  Who's  J.  C.  Blackburn  of 
Chicago?" 

"Ba'teese  don't  know.     Try  fin'  out.     Why?" 

"Have  you  read  that  message?" 

The  giant  traced  out  the  words,  almost  indeci- 
pherable in  places  from  creasing  and  handling. 
He  looked  up  sharply. 

"Boston?     You  came  from  Boston?" 

"Yes.  That  must  refer  to  me.  It  must  mean 
what  I've  been  suspecting  all  along, — that  Thayer's 


76  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

been  running  my  mill  down,  to  help  along  some 
competitor.  You'll  notice  that  he  says  he  has  me 
where  he  wants  me." 

"Oui— yes.     But  has  he?    What  was  the  deal?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  been  in  any  deal  that 
I  know  of,  yet  he  must  refer  to  me.  I  haven't  any 
idea  what  he  means  by  the  reference  to  starting 
operations,  or  that  sentence  about  the  'big  thing.' 
There  isn't  another  mill  around  here?" 

"None  nearer  than  the  Moscript  place  at  Echo 
Lake." 

"Then  what  can  it  be?"  Suddenly  Houston 
frowned  with  presentiment.  "Thayer's  been  going 
with  Medaine  a  good  deal,  hasn't  he?" 

"Oui — yes.  When  Ba'teese  can  think  of  no 
way  to  keep  him  from  it." 

"It  couldn't  be  that  he's  made  some  arrangement 
with  her — about  her  forest  lands?" 

"They  are  not  hers  yet.  She  does  not  come  into 
them  until  she  is  twenty-one." 

"But  they  are  available  then?" 

"Oui.     And  they  are  as  good  as  yours." 

"Practically  the  same  thing,  aren't  they?  How 
much  of  the  lake  does  she  own?" 

"The  east  quarter,  and  the  forests  that  front  on 
eet,  and  the  east  bank  of  Hawk  Creek." 

"Then  there  would  be  opportunity  for  every- 
thing, for  skidways  into  the  lake,  a  flume  on  her 
side  and  a  mill.  That  must  be — " 

"Ba'teese  would  have  hear  of  eet." 

"Surely.     But  Thayer  might  have—'* 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  77 

"Ba'teese  would  have  hear  of  eet,"  came  the 
repetition.  "No,  eet  is  something  else.  She 
would  have  ask  Ba'teese  and  Ba'teese  would  have 
said,  'No.  Take  nothing  and  give  nothing.  M'sieu 
Thayer,  he  is  no  good.'  So  eet  is  not  that.  You 
know  the  way  back?  Bon — good.  Go  to  the 
cabin.  Ba'teese  will  try  to  learn  who  eet  is,  this 
Blackburn." 

They  parted,  Ba'teese  to  lounge  back  into  the 
tiny  town,  Houston  to  take  the  winding  road  which 
led  back  to  the  cabin.  A  pretty  road  it  was,  too, 
one  which  trailed  along  beside  the  stream,  now 
clear  with  that  sharp  brilliancy  which  is  charac- 
teristic of  the  mountain  creek,  a  road  fringed  with 
whispering  aspens,  bright  green  in  their  new  foli- 
age, with  small  spruce  and  pine.  Here  and  there 
a  few  flowers  showed;  by  the  side  of  the  road  the 
wild  roses  peeped  up  from  the  denser  growths  of 
foliage,  and  a  vagrant  butterfly  or  so  made  the 
round  of  blossom  after  blossom.  It  was  spring- 
summer  down  here,  sharp  contrast  indeed  to  the 
winter  which  lurked  above  and  which  would  not 
fade  until  June  had  far  progressed.  But  with  it 
all,  its  beauty,  its  serenity,  its  peace  and  soft  moist- 
ness,  Houston  noticed  it  but  slightly.  His 
thoughts  were  on  other  things:  on  Thayer  and  his 
duplicity,  on  the  possibilities  of  the  future,  and  the 
methods  of  combating  a  business  enemy  he  felt  sure 
was  lurking  in  the  background. 

It  meant  more  to  Houston  than  the  mere  mone- 
tary value  of  a  loss, — should  a  loss  come.  Back  in 


78  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

the  family  burying  ground  in  Boston  was  a  mound 
that  was  fresher  than  others,  a  mound  which 
shielded  the  form  of  a  man  who  had  died  in  dis- 
appointment, leaving  behind  an  edict  which  his  son 
had  sworn  to  carry  through  to  its  fulfillment.  Now 
there  were  obstacles,  and  ones  which  were  shielded 
by  the  darkness  of  connivance  and  scheming.  The 
outlook  was  not  promising.  Yet  even  in  its  fore- 
boding, there  was  consolation. 

"I  at  least  know  Thayer's  a  crook.  I  can  fire 
him  and  run  the  mill  myself,"  Barry  was  murmur- 
ing to  himself,  as  he  plodded  along.  "There  may 
be  others;  I  can  weed  them  out.  At  least  saws 
won't  be  breaking  every  two  weeks  and  lumber 
won't  warp  for  lack  of  proper  handling.  Maybe 
I  can  get  somebody  back  East  to  look  after  the 
office  there  and — " 

He  ceased  his  soliloquy  as  he  glanced  ahead  and 
noticed  the  trim  figure  of  Medaine  Robinette 
swinging  along  the  road,  old  Lost  Wing,  as  usual, 
trailing  in  her  rear,  astride  a  calico  pony  and  lead- 
ing the  saddle  horse  which  she  evidently  had  be- 
come tired  of  riding.  A  small  switch  was  in  one 
hand,  and  she  flipped  it  at  the  new  leaves  of  the 
aspens  and  the  broad-leafed  mullens  beside  the 
road.  As  yet,  she  had  not  seen  him,  and  Barry 
hurried  toward  her,  jamming  his  cap  into  a  pocket 
that  his  hand  might  be  free  to  greet  her.  He  waved 
airily  as  they  came  closer  and  called.  But  if  she 
heard  him,  she  gave  no  indication.  Instead,  she 
turned — swiftly,  Houston  thought — and  mounted 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  79 

her  horse.  A  moment  later,  she  trotted  past  him, 
and  again  he  greeted  her,  to  be  answered  by  a  nod 
and  a  slight  movement  of  the  lips.  But  the  eyes 
had  been  averted.  Barry  could  see  that  the  thin- 
nest veneer  of  politeness  had  shielded  something 
else  as  she  spoke  to  him, — an  expression  of  distaste, 
of  dislike,  almost  loathing! 


CHAPTER  VII 

"Why?" 

Barry  Houston  could  not  answer  the  self-im- 
posed question.  He  could  only  stand  and  stare 
after  her  and  the  trotting,  rolling  Indian,  as  they 
moved  down  the  road  and  disappeared  in  the 
shadow  of  the  aspens  at  the  next  curve.  She  had 
seen  him;  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  that.  She 
had  recognized  him;  more,  Houston  felt  sure  that 
she  had  mounted  her  horse  that  she  might  better 
be  able  to  pass  him  and  greet  him  with  a  formal 
nod  instead  of  a  more  friendly  acknowledgment. 
And  this  was  the  girl  who,  an  afternoon  before, 
had  sat  beside  him  on  the  worn  old  bench  at  the 
side  of  Ba'tiste's  cabin  and  picked  thorns  from  the 
palm  of  his  hand, — thorns  from  the  stems  of 
wild  roses  which  she  had  brought  him!  The 
enigma  was  too  great  for  Houston.  He  could 
only  gasp  with  the  suddenness  of  it  and  sink  back 
into  a  dullness  of  outlook  and  viewpoint  which  he 
had  lost  momentarily.  It  was  thus  that  old  friends 
had  passed  him  by  in  Boston;  it  was  thus  that  men 
who  had  been  glad  to  borrow  money  from  him  in 
other  days  had  looked  the  other  way  when  the 
clouds  had  come.  A  strange  chill  went  over  him. 

"Thayer's  told  her!" 

He  spoke  the  sentence  like  a  man  repeating  the 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  81 

words  of  an  execution.  His  features  suddenly  had 
grown  haggard.  He  stumbled  slightly  as  he  made 
the  next  rise  in  the  road  and  went  on  slowly,  si- 
lently, toward  the  cabin. 

There  Ba'tiste  found  him,  slumped  on  the  bench, 
staring  out  at  the  white  and  rose  pinks  of  Mount 
Taluchen,  yet  seeing  none  of  it.  The  big  man 
boomed  a  greeting,  and  Barry,  striving  for  a  smile, 
answered  him.  The  Canadian  turned  to  his  wolf- 
dog. 

"Peuff!  Golemar!  Loneliness  sits  badly  upon 
our  friend.  He  is  homesick.  Trot  over  the  hill 
and  bring  to  him  the  petite  Medaine!  Ah  oui?  he 
laughed  in  immense  enjoyment  at  his  raillery, 
"bring  to  him  the  petite  Medaine  to  make  him 
laugh  and  be  happy."  Then,  seeing  that  the  man 
was  struggling  vainly  for  a  semblance  of  cheeriness, 
he  slid  beside  him  on  the  bench  and  tousled  his  hair 
with  one  big  hand.  "Nev'  min'  old  Ba'teese,"  he 
said  hurriedly;  "he  joke  when  eet  is  no  time.  You 
worry,  huh?  So,  mebbe,  Ba'teese  help.  There 
are  men  at  the  boarding  house." 

"The  Blackburn  crowd?" 

"So.  Seven  carpenters,  and  others.  They  work 
for  Blackburn,  who  is  in  Chicago.  They  are  here 
to  build  a  mill." 

"A  mill?"  Barry  looked  up  now  with  new  inter- 
est. "Where?" 

Near  the  lake.  The  mill,  eet  will  be  sawing  in 
a  month.  The  rest,  the  big  plant,  eet  will  take 
time  for  that." 


82  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"On  Medaine's  land  then!"  But  Ba'tiste  shook 
his  head. 

"No.  Eet  is  on  the  five  acres  own'  by  Jerry 
Martin.  He  has  been  try'  to  sell  eet  for  five  year. 
Eet  is  no  good — rocks  and  rocks — and  rocks. 
They  build  eet  there." 

"But  what  can  they  do  on  five  acres?  Where 
will  they  get  their  lumber?" 

The  trapper  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Ba'teese  on'y  know  what  they  tell  heem." 

"But  surely,  there  must  be  some  mistake  about 
it.  You  say  they  are  going  to  start  sawing  in  a 
month,  and  that  a  bigger  plant  is  going  up.  Do 
you  mean  a  complete  outfit, — planers  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing?" 

"So!" 

Houston  shook  his  head. 

"For  the  life  of  me,  I  can't  see  it.  In  the  first 
place,  I  have  the  only  timber  around  here  with  the 
exception  of  Medaine's  land,  and  you  say  that  she 
doesn't  come  into  that  until  next  year.  But  they're 
going  to  start  sawing  at  this  new  mill  within  a 
month.  My  timber  stretches  back  from  the  lake 
for  eight  miles;  they  either  will  have  to  go  beyond 
that  and  truck  in  the  logs  for  that  distance,  which 
would  be  ruinous  as  far  as  profits  are  concerned, 
or  content  themselves  with  scrub  pine  and  sapling 
spruce.  I  don't  see  what  they  can  make  out  of 
that.  Isn't  that  right?  All  I  know  about  it  is 
from  what  I've  heard.  I've  never  made  a  cruise  of 
the  territory  around  here.  But  it's  always  been 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  83 

my  belief  that  with  the  exception  of  the  land  on  the 
other  quarter  of  the  lake — " 

"That  is  all." 

"Then  where—" 

But  again  Ba'tiste  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Then 
he  pulled  long  at  his  grizzled  beard,  regarding  the 
wolf-dog  which  sat  between  his  legs,  staring  up  at 
him. 

"Golemar,"  came  at  last.  "There  is  something 
strange.  Peuff!  We  shall  fin'  out,  you  and  me 
and  mon  ami"  Suddenly  he  turned.  "M'sieu 
Thayer,  he  gone." 

"Gone?    You  mean  he's  run  away?" 

"By  gar,  no.  But  he  leave  hurried.  He  get 
a  telephone  from  long  distance.  Chicago." 

"Then—" 

"Ba'teese  not  know.  M'sieu  Shuler  in  the  tele- 
phone office,  he  tell  me.  Eet  is  a  long  call,  M'sieu 
Shuler  is  curious,  and  he  listen  in  while  they,  what- 
you-say,  chew  up  the  rag.  Eet  is  a  woman.  She 
say  to  meet  her  in  Denver.  This  morning  M'sieu 
Thayer  take  the  train.  Bon — good!" 

"Good?    Why?" 

"What  you  know  about  lumber?" 

Houston  shook  his  head. 

"A  lot  less  than  I  should.  It  wasn't  my  busi- 
ness, you  know.  My  father  started  this  mill  out 
here  during  boom  times,  when  it  looked  as  though 
the  railroad  over  Crestline  would  make  the  distance 
between  Denver  and  Salt  Lake  so  short  that  the 
country  would  build  up  like  wild  fire.  He  got 


84  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

them  to  put  in  a  switch  from  above  Tabernacle  to 
the  mill  and  figured  on  making  a  lot  of  money  out 
of  it  all.  But  it  didn't  pan  out,  Ba'tiste.  First  of 
all,  the  railroad  didn't  go  to  Salt  Lake  and  in  the 
second — " 

"The  new  road  will,"  said  the  French-Canadian. 
"Peuff!  When  they  start  to  build  eet,  blooey! 
Eet  will  be  no  time." 

"The  new  road?    I  didn't  know  there  was  to  be 


one." 


"Ah,  oui,  oui,  oui!"  Ba'tiste  became  enthusias- 
tic. "They  shall  make  eet  a  road!  Eet  will  not 
wind  over  the  range  like  this  one.  Eet  shall  come 
through  the  mountains  with  a  six-mile  tunnel,  at 
Carrow  Peak  where  they  have  work  already  one, 
two,  free  year.  Then  eet  will  start  out  straight, 
and  peuff!  Eet  will  cut  off  a  hundred  mile  to 
Salt  Lake.  Then  we  will  see!" 

"When  is  all  this  going  to  happen?" 

The  giant  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"When  the  railroad,  eet  is  ready,  and  the  tunnel, 
eet  is  done.  When  that  shall  be?  No  one  know. 
But  the  survey,  eet  is  made.  The  land,  eet  is  con- 
dem'.  So  it  must  be  soon.  But  you  say  you  no 
know  lumber?" 

"Not  more  than  any  office  man  could  learn 
in  a  year  and  a  half.  It  wasn't  my  business, 
Ba'tiste.  Father  thought  less  and  less  of  the  mill 
every  year.  Once  or  twice,  he  was  all  but  ready 
to  sell  it  to  Thayer,  and  would  have  done  it,  I 
guess,  if  Thayer  could  have  raised  the  money.  He 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  85 

was  sick  of  the  thing  and  wanted  to  get  rid  of  it.  I 
had  gone  into  the  real  estate  business,  never  dream- 
ing but  that  some  day  the  mill  would  be  sold  and 
off  our  hands.  Then — then  my  trouble  came 
along,  and  my  father — left  this  will.  Since  then, 
I've  been  busy  trying  to  stir  up  business.  Oh,  I 
guess  I  could  teU  a  weathered  scantling  from  a 
green  one,  and  a  long  time  ago,  when  I  was  out 
here,  my  father  taught  me  how  to  scale  a  log. 
That's  about  all." 

"Could  you  tell  if  a  man  cut  a  tree  to  get  the 
greatest  footage?  If  you  should  say  to  a  lumber- 
jack to  fell  a  tree  at  the  spring  of  the  root,  would 
you  know  whether  he  did  it  or  not?  Heh?  Could 
you  know  if  the  sawyer  robbed  you  of  fifty  feet  on 
ever'  log?  No?  Then  we  shall  learn.  To-mor- 
row, we  shall  go  to  the  mill.  M'sieu  Thayer  shall 
not  be  there.  Perhaps  Ba'tiste  can  tell  you  much. 
Bien!  We  shall  take  Medaine,  ow?  Yes?" 

"I— I  don't  think  she'd  go." 

"Why  not?" 

"I'd  rather — "  Houston  was  thinking  of  a  curt 
nod  and  averted  eyes.  "Maybe  we'd  better  just 
go  alone,  Ba'tiste." 

"Tres  bien.  We  shall  go  into  the  forest.  We 
shall  learn  much." 

And  the  next  morning  the  old  French-Canadian 
lived  true  to  his  promise.  Behind  a  plodding  pair 
of  horses  hitched  to  a  jolting  wagon,  they  made  the 
journey,  far  out  across  the  hills  and  plateau  flats 
from  Tabernacle,  gradually  winding  into  a  shallow 


86  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

canon  which  led  to  places  which  Houston  remem- 
bered from  years  long  gone.  Beside  the  road 
ran  the  rickety  track  which  served  as  a  spur 
from  the  main  line  of  the  railroad,  five  miles 
from  camp, — the  ties  rotten,  the  plates  loosened  and 
the  rails  but  faintly  free  from  rust;  silent  testi- 
mony of  the  fact  that  cars  traveled  but  seldom 
toward  the  market,  that  the  hopes  of  distant  years 
had  not  been  fulfilled.  Ahead  of  them,  a  white- 
faced  peak  reared  itself  against  the  sky,  as  though 
a  sentinel  against  further  progress, — Bear  Mount- 
ain, three  miles  beyond  the  farthest  stretch  of 
Empire  Lake.  Nearer,  a  slight  trail  of  smoke 
curled  upward,  and  Ba'tiste  pointed. 

"The  mill,"  he  said.     "Two  mile  yet." 

"Yes,  I  remember  in  a  hazy  sort  of  way."  Then 
he  laughed  shortly.  "Things  will  have  to  happen 
and  happen  fast  if  I  ever  live  up  to  my  contract, 
Ba'tiste." 

"So?" 

"Yes,  I  put  too  much  confidence  in  Thayer.  I 
thought  he  was  honest.  When  my  father  died,  he 
came  back  to  Boston,  of  course,  and  we  had  a  long 
talk.  I  agreed  that  I  was  not  to  interfere  out  here 
any  more  than  was  necessary,  spending  my  time, 
instead,  in  rounding  up  business.  He  had  been 
my  father's  manager,  and  I  naturally  felt  that  he 
would  give  every  bit  of  his  attention  to  my  business. 
I  didn't  know  that  he  had  other  schemes,  and  I 
didn't  begin  to  get  on  to  the  fact  until  I  started  los- 
ing contracts.  That  wasn't  so  long  ago.  Now 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  87 

I'm  out  here,  and  if  necessary,  I'll  stay  here  and 
be  everything  from  manager  to  lumberjack,  to  pull 
through." 

"Bon!  My  Pierre,  he  would  talk  like  that." 
Then  the  old  man  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Old 
Ba'tiste,  he  has  notice  some  things.  He  will  show 
you.  Golemar!  Wheel" 

In  answer  to  the  whining  call  of  the  giant,  the 
wolf-dog,  trotting  beside  the  lazy  team,  swerved 
and  nipped  at  the  horses'  heck.  The  pace  became 
a  jogging  trot.  Soon  they  were  in  view  of  the 
long,  smooth  mound  of  sawdust  leading  to  the 
squat,  rambling  saw  shed.  A  moment  more  and 
the  bunk  house,  its  unpainted  clapboards  black- 
ened by  the  rain  and  sun  and  snows,  showed  ahead. 
A  half-mile,  then  Ba'tiste  left  the  wagon  and, 
Barry  following  him,  walked  toward  the  mill  and 
its  whining,  groaning  saws. 

"Watch  close!"  he  ordered.  "See  ever'thing 
they  do.  Then  remember.  Ba'tiste  tell  you  about 
it  when  we  come  out." 

Within  they  went,  where  hulking,  strong- should- 
ered men  were  turning  the  logs  from  the  piles  with- 
out, along  the  skidways  and  to  the  carriage  of  the 
mill,  their  cant  hooks  working  in  smooth  precision, 
their  muscles  bulging  as  they  rolled  the  great 
cylinders  of  wood  into  place,  steadied  them,  then 
stood  aside  until  the  carriages  should  shunt  them 
toward  the  sawyer  and  the  tremendous,  revolving 
wheel  which  was  to  convert  them  into  "board  feet" 
of  lumber.  Hurrying  "off-bearers",  or  slab-car- 


88  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

riers,  white  with  sawdust,  scampered  away  from  the 
consuming  saw,  dragging  the  bark  and  slab-sides 
to  a  smaller  blade,  there  to  be  converted  into  boiler 
fuel  and  to  be  fed  to  the  crackling  fire  of  the 
stationary  engine,  far  at  one  errd  of  the  mill. 
Leather  belts  whirred  and  slapped;  there  was  noise 
everywhere,  except  from  the  lips  of  men.  For  they, 
these  men  of  the  forest,  were  silent,  almost  taci- 
turn. 

To  Barry,  it  all  seemed  a  smooth-working,  per- 
fectly aligned  thing:  the  big  sixteen-foot  logs  went 
forward,  rough,  uncouth  things,  to  be  dragged  into 
the  consuming  teeth  of  the  saw;  then,  through  the 
sheer  force  of  the  blade,  pulled  on  until  brownness 
became  whiteness,  the  cylindrical  shape  a  lop- 
sided thing  with  one  long,  glaring,  white  mark;  to 
be  shunted  back  upon  the  automatic  carriage, 
notched  over  for  a  second  incision,  and  started  for- 
ward again,  while  the  newly  sawn  boards  traveled 
on  to  the  trimmers  and  edgers,  and  thence  to  the 
drying  racks. 

Log  after  log  skidded  upon  the  carriage  and 
was  brought  forward,  while  Houston,  fascinated, 
watched  the  kerf  mark  of  the  blade  as  it  tore  away 
a  slab-side.  Then  a  touch  on  the  arm  and  he  fol- 
lowed Ba'tiste  without.  The  Canadian  wandered 
thoughtfully  about  a  moment,  at  last  to  approach  a 
newly  stacked  pile  of  lumber  and  lean  against  it. 
A  second  more  and  he  drew  something  to  his  side 
and  stared  at  it. 

"Oh,  ho!"  came  at  last.     "M'sieu  Houston,  he 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  89 

will,  what-you-say,  fix  the  can  on  the  sawyer." 

"Why?" 

"First,"  said  Ba'tiste  quietly,  "he  waste 
a  six-inch  board  on  each  slab-side  he  take 
off.  Un'stand?  The  first  cut — when  the  bark,  eet 
is  sliced  off.  He  take  too  much.  Eet  is  so  easy. 
And  then — look."  He  drew  his  hand  from  its 
place  of  concealment,  displaying  a  big  thumb 
measuring  upon  a  small  ruler.  "See?  Eet  is  an 
inch  and  a  quarter.  Too  thick." 

"I  know  that  much  at  least.  Lumber  should 
be  cut  at  the  mill  an  inch  and  an  eighth  thick  to 
allow  for  shrinkage  to  an  inch — but  not  an  inch 
and  a  quarter." 

"Bon!"  Ba'tiste  grinned.  "Eet  make  a  differ- 
ence on  a  big  log.  Eight  cuts  of  the  saw  and  a 
good  board,  eet  is  gone." 

"No  wonder  I  don't  make  money." 

"There  is  much  more.  The  trimmer  and  the 
edger,  they  take  off  too  much.  They  make  eight- 
inch  boards  where  there  should  be  ten,  and  ten 
where  there  should  be  twelve.  You  shall  have  a 


new  crew." 


"And  a  new  manager,"  Houston  said  it  quietly. 

The  necessity  for  his  masquerade  was  fading  swiftly 

now. 

"And  new  men  on  the  kilns.     See!" 

Far  to  one  side,  a  great  mass  of  lumber  reared 

itself  against  the  sky,  twisted  and  warped,  the  offal 

of    the     drying    kilns.    Ba'tiste     shrugged    his 

shoulders. 


90  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"So!  When  the  heat,  eet  is  made  too  quick,  the 
lumber  twist.  Eet  is  so  easy — when  one  wants 
some  one  to  be  tired  and  quit!" 

To  quit!  It  was  all  plain  to  Barry  Houston 
now.  Thayer  had  tried  to  buy  the  mill  when  the 
elder  Houston  was  alive.  He  had  failed.  Now, 
he  was  striving  for  something  else  to  make  Hous- 
ton the  newcomer,  Houston,  who  was  striving  to 
succeed  without  the  fundamentals  of  actual  logging 
experience,  disgusted  with  the  business  and  his  con- 
tract with  the  dead.  The  first  year  and  a  half  of 
the  fight  had  passed, — a  losing  proposition;  Barry 
could  see  why  now,  in  warped  lumber  and  thick-cut 
boards,  in  broken  machinery  and  unfulfilled  con- 
tracts. Thayer  wanted  him  to  quit;  his  father's 
death  had  tied  up  the  mill  proper  to  such  an  extent 
that  it  could  neither  be  leased  nor  sold  for  a  long 
time.  But  the  timber  could  be  bought  on  a  stump- 
age  basis,  the  lake  and  flume  leased,  and  with  a  new 
mill— 

"I  understand  the  whole  thing  now!"  There 
was  excitement  in  the  tone.  "They  can't  get  this 
mill — on  account  of  the  way  the  will  reads.  I 
can't  dispose  of  it.  But  they  know  that  with  the 
mill  out  of  the  way,  and  the  whole  thing  a  disap- 
pointment, that  I  should  be  willing  to  contract  my 
timber  to  them  and  lease  the  flume.  Then  they  can 
go  ahead  with  their  own  plans  and  their  own 
schemes.  It's  the  lake  and  flume  and  timber  that 
counts,  anyway;  this  mill's  the  cheapest  part  of  it 
all." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  91 

"Ah,  oui!"     The  big  man  wagged  his  head  in 
sage  approval.     "But  it  shall  not  be,  eh?" 
Houston's  lips  went  into  a  line. 
"Not  until  the  last  dog  dies!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"Ah,  ouit"    Evidently  Ba'tiste  liked  tHe  ex- 
pression.    "Eet  shall  not  be  until — what-you-say 
—the  last  dog,  eet  is  dead.     Come!    We  will  go 
into  the  forest.     Ba'tiste  will  show  you  things  you 
should  know." 

And  to  the  old  wagon  again  they  went,  to  trail 
their  way  up  the  narrow  road  along  the  bubbling, 
wooden  flume  which  led  from  the  lake,  to  swerve 
off  at  the  dam  and  turn  into  the  hills  again.  Be- 
low them,  the  great  expanse  of  water  ruffled  and 
shimmered  in  the  May  sun;  away  off  at  the  far 
end,  a  log  slid  down  a  skidway,  and  with  a  boom- 
ing splash  struck  the  water,  to  bury  itself  for  a 
hundred  feet,  only  to  rise  at  last,  and  bobbing,  go 
to  join  others  of  its  kind,  drifting  toward  the  dam 
with  the  current  of  the  stream  which  formed  the 
lake.  In  the  smoother  spaces,  trout  splashed;  the 
reflections  of  the  hills  showed  in  the  great  expanse 
as  the  light  wind  lessened,  allowing  the  surface  to 
become  glass-like,  revealing  also  the  twisted  roots 
and  dead  branches  of  trees  long  inundated  in  form- 
ing the  big  basin  of  water. 

Evidently  only  a  few  men  were  working  in  the 
hills;  the  descent  of  the  logs  was  a  thing  spaced 
by  many  minutes,  and  the  booming  of  the  splash 
struck  forth  into  the  hills  to  be  echoed  and  re- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  93 

echoed.     Houston  stared  gloomily  at  the  skid,  at 
the  lake  and  the  small  parcel  of  logs  drifting  there. 

"All  for  nothing,"  came  at  last.     "It  takes  about 
three  logs  to  make  one —  the  way  they're  working." 

"Oui!    But  M'sieu  Houston  shall  learn." 

Barry  did  not  answer.  He  had  learned  a  great 
deal  already.  He  knew  enough  to  realize  that  his 
new  effort  must  be  a  clean  sweep, — from  the  man- 
ager down.  Distrust  had  enveloped  him  com- 
pletely; even  to  the  last  lumberjack  must  the  camp 
be  cleaned,  and  the  start  made  anew  with  a  crew 
upon  whom  he  could  depend  for  honesty,  at  least. 
How  the  rest  of  the  system  was  to  work  out,  he  did 
not  know.  How  he  was  to  sell  the  lumber  which  he 
intended  milling,  how  he  was  to  look  after  both 
the  manufacturing  and  the  disposing  of  his  prod- 
uct was  something  beyond  him,  just  at  this  mo- 
ment. But  there  would  be  a  way;  there  must  be. 
Besides,  there  was  Ba'tiste,  heavy-shouldered, 
giant  Ba'tiste,  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  wagon> 
whistling  and  chiding  the  faithful  old  Golemar, 
and  some  way  Houston  felt  that  he  would  be  an 
ally  always. 

The  wagon  had  turned  into  the  deeper  forest 
now  redolent  with  the  heavy  odor  of  the  conifer- 
ous woods,  and  Ba'tiste  straightened.  Soon  he  was 
talking  and  pointing, — now  to  describe  the  spruce 
and  its  short,  stubby,  upturned  needles;  the  lodge- 
pole  pines  with  their  straighter,  longer  leaves 
and  more  brownish,  scaly  bark;  the  Englemann 
spruce;  the  red  fir  and  limber  pine;  each  had  its 


94  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

characteristic,  to  be  pointed  out  in  the  simple  words 
of  the  big  Canadian,  and  to  be  catalogued  by  the 
man  at  his  side.  A  moment  before,  they  had  been 
only  pines,  only  so  many  trees.  Now  each  was 
different,  each  had  its  place  in  the  mind  of  the  man 
who  studied  them  with  a  new  interest  and  a  new 
enthusiasm,  even  though  they  might  fall,  one  after 
another,  into  the  maw  of  the  saw  for  the  same  pur- 
pose. 

"They  are  like  people,  ouit"  Old  Ba'tiste  was 
gesticulating.  "They  have  their,  what-you-say, 
make-ups.  The  lodgepole,  he  is  like  the  man  who 
runs  up  and  looks  on  when  the  crowd,  eet  gathers 
about  some  one  who  has  been  hurt.  He  waits  until 
there  had  been  a  fire,  and  then  he  comes  in  and 
grows  first,  along  with  the  aspens,  so  he  can  get 
all  the  room  he  wants.  The  spruce,  he  is  like  a 
woman,  yes,  oui.  He  looks  better  than  the  rest 
— but  he  is  not.  Sometime,  he  is  not  so  good. 
Whoa!" 

The  road  had  narrowed  to  a  mere  trail;  Ba'tiste 
tugged  on  the  reins,  and  motioning  to  Barry,  left 
the  wagon,  pulling  forth  an  axe  and  heavy,  cross- 
cut saw  as  he  did  so.  A  half -hour  later,  Golemar 
preceding  them,  they  were  deep  in  the  forest. 
Ba'tiste  stopped  and  motioned  toward  a  tall  spruce. 

"See?"  he  ordered,  as  he  nicked  it  with  his  axe, 
"you  cut  heem  as  far  above  the  ground  as  he  is 
thick  through.  Now,  first,  the  undercut." 

"Looks  like  an  overcut  to  me." 

"Oh,  ho!    Ah,  oui,  so  eet  is!    But  eet  is  called 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  95 

the  undercut.     Eet  makes  the  tree  fall  the  way 
you  want  heem!" 

The  axe  gleamed  in  blow  after  blow.  A  deep 
incision  appeared  in  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  at 
the  base  of  it  Ba'tiste  started  the  saw,  Barry  work- 
ing on  the  other  end  with  his  good  arm.  Ten  min- 
utes of  work  and  they  switched  to  the  other  side. 
Here  no  "undercut"  was  made;  the  saw  bit  into  the 
bark  and  deep  toward  the  heart  of  the  tree  in  a 
smooth,  sharp  line  that  progressed  farther, 
farther — 
"Look  outr 

A  crackling  sound  had  come  from  above* 
Ba'tiste  abandoned  the  saw,  and  with  one  great 
leap  caught  Houston  and  pulled  him  far  to  one 
side,  as  with  a  roar,  the  spruce  seemed  to  veritably 
disintegrate,  its  trunk  spreading  in  great,  splintered 
slabs,  and  the  tree  proper  crashing  to  the  ground 
in  the  opposite  direction  to  which  it  should  have 
fallen,  breaking  as  it  came.  A  moment  Ba'tiste 
stood,  with  his  arm  still  about  the  younger  man, 
waiting  for  the  dead  branches,  severed  from  other 
trees,  to  cease  falling,  and  the  disturbed  needles 
and  dust  of  the  forest  to  settle.  Then,  pulling  his 
funny  little  knit  cap  far  down  over  his  straggly  hair, 
he  came  forth,  to  stand  in  meditation  upon  the 
largest  portion  of  the  shattered  tree. 

"Eet  break  up  like  an  ice  jam!"  came  at  last. 
"That  tree,  he  is  not  made  of  wood.  Peuff!  He 
is  of  glass!" 

Barry  joined  him,  studying  the  splintered  frag- 


96  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

merits  of  the  spruce,  suddenly  to  bend  forward  in 
wonderment. 

"That's  queer.  Here's  a  railroad  spike  driven 
clear  into  the  heart." 

"Huh  ?  What's  that  ?"  Ba'tiste  bent  beside  him 
to  examine  the  rusty  spike,  then  hurried  to  a  mi- 
nute examination  of  the  rest  of  the  tree.  "And  an- 
other," came  at  last.  "And  more!" 

Four  heavy  spikes  had  revealed  themselves  now, 
each  jutting  forth  at  a  place  where  the  tree  had 
split.  Ba'tiste  straightened. 

"Ah,  out!  Eet  is  no  wonder!  See?  The  spike, 
they  have  been  in  the  tree  for  mebbe  one,  two,  free 
year.  And  the  tree,  he  is  not  strong.  When  the 
winter  come,  last  year,  he  split  inside,  from  the 
frost,  where  the  spike,  he  spread  the  grain.  But 
the  split,  he  does  not  show.  When  we  try  to  cut 
heem  down  and  the  strain  come,  blooey,  he,  what- 
you-say,  bust!" 

"But  why  the  spikes?" 

"Wait!"  Ba'tiste,  suddenly  serious,  turned 
away  into  the  woods,  to  go  slowly  from  tree  to  tree, 
to  dig  at  them  with  his  knife,  to  squint  and  stare, 
to  shin  a  few  feet  up  a  trunk  now  and  then,  ex- 
amining every  protuberance,  every  round,  bulbous 
scar.  At  last  he  shouted,  and  Houston  hurried  to 
him,  to  find  the  giant  digging  excitedly  at  a  lodge- 
pole.  "I  have  foun'  another!" 

The  knife,  deep  in  the  tree,  had  scratched  on 
metal.  Five  minutes  more  and  they  had  discovered 
a  third  one,  farther  away.  Then  a  fourth,  a  fifth; 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  97 

soon  the  number  had  run  to  a  score,  all  within 
a  small  radius.  Ba'tiste,  more  excited  than  ever, 
ranged  off  into  the  woods,  leaving  Barry  to  dig 
at  the  trees  about  him  and  to  discover  even  more 
metal  buried  in  the  hearts  of  the  standing  lumber. 
For  an  hour  he  was  gone,  to  return  at  last  and 
stand  staring  about  him. 

"The  spike,  they  are  all  in  this  little  section," 
he  said  finally.  "I  have  cruise'  all  about  here — 
there  are  no  more." 

"But  why  should  trees  grow  spikes?" 

"Ah,  why?  So  that  saws  will  break  at  the  right 
time!  Eet  is  easy  for  the  iron  hunter  at  the  mill 
to  look  the  other  way — eef  he  knows  what  the  boss 
want.  Eet  is  easy  for  the  sawyer  to  step  out  of 
the  way  while  the  blade,  he  hit  a  spike  1" 

A  long  whistle  traveled  over  Houston's  lips. 
This  was  the  explanation  of  broken  saws,  just  at 
the  crucial  moment ! 

"Simple,  isn't  it?"  he  asked  caustically.  "When- 
ever it's  necessary  for  an  'accident'  to  happen, 
merely  send  out  into  the  woods  for  a  load  of  timber 
from  a  certain  place." 

"Then  the  iron  hunter — the  man  who  look  for 
metal  in  the  wood — he  look  some  other  place.  Be- 
side," and  Ba'tiste  looked  almost  admiringly  at  a 
spike-filled  tree.  "Eet  is  a  good  job.  The  spike, 
they  are  driven  deep  in  the  wood,  they  are  punched 
away  in,  so  the  bark,  eet  will  close  over  them.  If 
the  iron  hunter  is  not,  what-you-say,  full  of  pepper, 
and  if  he  is  lazy,  then  he  not  find  heem,  whether 


98  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

he  want  to  or  not.     M'sieu  Thayer,  he  have  a  head 
on  him." 

"Then  Thayer—" 

"Why  not?" 

"But  why?  He  was  the  only  man  on  the  job 
out  here.  He  didn't  have  to  fill  a  whole  section  of 
a  forest  full  of  spikes  when  he  wanted  to  break  a 
saw  or  cause  me  trouble." 

"Ah,  no.  But  M'sieu — that  is,  whoever  did  eet 
1 — maybe  he  figure  on  the  time  when  you  yourself 
try  to  run  the  mill.  Eh?" 

"Well,  if  he  did,"  came  sharply,  "he's  figured 
on  this  exact  moment.  I've  seen  enough,  Ba'tiste. 
I'm  going  to  Denver  and  contract  myself  an  en- 
tirely new  crew.  Then  I'm  coming  back  to  drop 
this  masquerade  I've  been  carrying  on — and  if 
you'll  help  me — run  this  place  myself.  Thayer's 
out — from  the  minute  I  can  get  a  new  outfit.  I'm 
not  going  to  take  any  chances.  When  he  goes, 
the  whole  bunch  here  goes  with  him!" 

"Ah,  oui!"  Ba'tiste  grinned  with  enthusiasm. 
"You  said  a  what-you-say — large  bite!  Now," 
he  walked  toward  the  saw,  "we  shall  fell  a  tree  that 
shall  not  split." 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I'd  rather  go  back  and  look 
around  the  place.  I  want  to  get  lined  up  on  every- 
thing before  I  start  to  Denver." 

"Ah,  oui"  Together,  led  by  the  wolf-dog,  they 
made  their  way  to  the  wagon  again,  once  more  to 
skirt  the  lake  and  to  start  down  the  narrow  road- 
way leading  beside  the  flume.  A  half-hour  more 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  99 

and  there  came  the  sound  of  hammers  and  of  saws. 
They  stopped,  and  staring  through  the  scraggly 
trees,  made  out  the  figures  of  half  a  dozen  men 
busily  at  work  upon  the  erection  of  a  low,  rambling 
building.  All  about  them  were  vast  piles  of  lum- 
ber, two-by-fours,  scantlings,  boardings,  shingles, 
— everything  that  possibly  could  be  needed  in  the 
building  of  not  one,  but  many  structures.  Ba'tiste 
nodded. 

"The  new  mill." 

"Yes.  Probably  being  built  out  of  my  lumber. 
It's  a  cinch  they  didn't  transport  it  all  the  way 
from  Tabernacle." 

"Nor  pay  M'sieu  Houston.  Many  things  can 
happen  when  one  is  the  manager." 

Barry  made  no  answer.  For  another  mile  they 
drove  in  silence,  at  last  to  come  into  the  clearing 
of  Barry's  mill,  with  its  ,bunk  .house,  its  cook 
house,  its  diminutive  commissary,  its  mill  and  kilns 
and  sheds.  Houston  leaped  from  the  wagon  to 
start  a  census  and  to  begin  his  preparations  for  a 
cleaning-out  of  the  whole  establishment.  But  at 
the  door  of  the  commissary  he  whirled,  staring.  A 
buggy  was  just  coming  over  the  brow  of  the  little 
hill  which  led  to  the  mill  property.  Some  one  had 
called  to  him, — a  woman  whose  voice  had  caused 
him  to  start,  then,  a  second  later,  to  go  running 
forward. 

She  was  beside  Thayer  in  the  buggy,  leaning 
forth,  one  hand  extended  as  Barry  hurried  toward 
her,  her  black  eyes  flashing  eagerness,  her  full,  yet 


100  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

cold  lips  parted,  her  olive-skinned  cheeks  enlivened 
by  a  flush  of  excitement  as  Houston  came  to  her, 
forgetful  of  the  sneer  of  the  man  at  her  side,  for- 
getful of  the  staring  Ba'tiste  in  the  background, 
forgetful  of  his  masquerade,  of  everything. 
"Agnes!"  he  gasped.  "Why  did  you- 
"I  thought — "  and  the  drawling  voice  of  Fred 
Thayer  had  a  suddenly  sobering  effect  on  Hous- 
ton, "that  you  weren't  hurt  very  bad.  Your  mem- 
ory came  back  awful  quick,  didn't  it?  I  thought 
she'd  bring  you  to  your  senses!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

Houston  pretended  not  to  hear  the  remark. 
The  woman  in  the  buggy  was  holding  forth  her 
hands  to  him  and  he  assisted  her  to  the  ground. 

"Well,"  she  asked,  in  a  sudden  fawning  manner, 
"aren't  you  glad  to  see  me,  Barry?  Aren't  you 
going  to  kiss  me?" 

"Of  course."  He  took  her  in  his  arms.  "I — 
I  was  so  surprised,  Agnes.  I  never  thought  of 
you—" 

"Naturally  you  didn't."  It  was  Thayer  again. 
"That's  why  I  sent  for  her.  Thought  you'd  get 
your  memory  back  when — " 

"I've    had    my    memory    for   long   enough- 
Houston  had  turned  upon  him  coldly — "to  know 
that  from  ;now  on  I'll  run  this  place.     You're 
through!" 

"Barry!"  The  woman  had  grasped  his  arm. 
"Don't  talk  like  that.  You  don't  know  what 
you're  saying!" 

"Please,  Agnes—" 

"Let  him  rave,  if  that's  the  way  he  wants  to 
repay  faithfulness." 

"Wait  until  I've  talked  to  you,  Barry.  You 
haven't  had  time  to  think.  You've  jumped  at  con- 
clusions. Fred  just  thought  that  I  could — " 

"This  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  you,  Agnes. 


102  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

There  hasn't  been  anything  wrong  with  me.  My 
brain's  been  all  right;  I've  known  every  minute 
what  I'vB  been  doing.  This  man's  crooked,  and  I 
know  lie's  crooked.  I  needed  time,  and  I  shammed 
forgetfulness.  I've  gotten  the  information  I  need 
now — and  I'm  repeating  that  he's  through!  And 
every  one  else  in  this  camp  goes  with  him!" 

"I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  taking  insults!     I — " 

Thayer  moved  forward  belligerently,  one  hand 
reaching  toward  a  cant  hook  near  by.  But  sud- 
denly he  ceased.  Ba'tiste,  quite  naturally,  had 
strolled  between  them. 

"M'sieu  Houston  have  a  broke'  arm,"  had  come 
very  quietly.  Thayer  grunted. 

"Maybe  that's  the  reason  he  thinks  he  can  in- 
sult every  one  around  here." 

Ba'tiste  looked  down  upon  him,  as  a  Newfound- 
land would  look  upon  a  snapping  terrier. 

"M'sieu  Houston  insult  nobody." 

"But—" 

The  voice  of  the  big  man  rose  to  a  roar. 

"Ba'teese  say,  M'sieu  Houston  insult  nobody. 
Un'stan'?  Ba'teese  say  that!  Ba'teese  got  no 
broke'  arm!" 

"Who  is  this  man?"  The  woman  had  turned 
angrily  toward  Barry:  "What  right  has  he  to 
talk  this  way?  The  whole  thing's  silly,  as  far  as 
I  can  see,  Barry.  This  man,  whoever  he  is,  has 
been  stuffing  you  full  of  stories.  There — " 

"This  man,  Agnes,"  and  Barry  Houston's  voice 
carried  a  quality  he  never  before  had  used  with 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  103 

Agnes  Jierdon,  "is  the  best  friend  I  ever  had. 
You'll  realize  it  before  long.  He  not  only  has 
saved  my  life,  but  he's  going  to  help  me  save  my 
business.  I  want  you  to  know  him  and  to  like 
him." 

A  quick  smile  flashed  over  the  full  lips. 

"I  didn't  know,  Barry.     Pardon  me." 

Houston  turned  to  the  introduction,  while  Agnes 
Jierdon  held  forth  a  rather  limp  hand  and  while 
Ba'tiste,  knit  cap  suddenly  pulled  from  straggly 
gray  hair,  bent  low  in  acknowledgment.  Thayer, 
grumbling  under  his  breath,  started  away.  Hous- 
ton went  quickly  toward  him. 

"You  understood  me?" 

"Perfectly.  I'm  fired.  I  was  good  enough  for 
your  father,  but  you  know  more  than  he  did.  I 


was — " 


"We  won't  go  into  that." 

"There's  nothing  about  it  that  I'm  ashamed  of." 
Still  the  sneer  was  there,  causing  Barry's  bandaged 
arm  to  ache  for  freedom  and  strength.  "I  don't 
have  to  go  around  hiding  my  past." 

Houston  bit  down  a  retort  and  forced  himself 
to  the  question: 

"How  long  will  it  take  you  to  get  out  of  here?" 

"I'll  be  out  to-night.  I  don't  stay  where  I'm 
not  wanted.  Needn't  think  I'll  hang  around  beg- 
ging you  for  a  job.  There  are  plenty  of  'em,  for 
men  like  me." 

"One  that  I  know  of,  in  particular.  I  asked 
you  when  you  could  get  out." 


104  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"An  hour,  if  you're  so  impatient  about  it.  But 
I  want  my  check  first." 

"You'll  get  it,  and  everybody  else  connected  with 
you.  So  you  might  as  well  give  the  word." 

For  a  moment,  Thayer  stared  at  him  in  ma- 
lignant hate,  his  gnarled  hands  twisting  and  knot- 
ting. Then,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  he  turned 
away  toward  the  mill.  A  moment  later  the  whistle 
blew  and  the  saws  ceased  to  snarl.  Barry  turned 
back  to  Agnes  and  Ba'tiste.  The  woman  caught 
impulsively  at  his  arm. 

"Where  on  earth  am  I  going  to  live,  Barry?" 
she  questioned.  "I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  town. 
And  I  can't  stay  in  this  deserted  place,  if  every 
one  is  leaving  it." 

"I'll  keep  the  cook.  She  can  fix  you  e  room  in 
one  of  the  cottages  and  stay  there  with  you.  How- 
ever, it  would  be  best  to  go  back." 

"But  I  won't."  She  shook  her  head  with  an  at- 
tempt at  levity.  "I've  come  all  this  distance, 
worried  to  death  every  moment  over  you,  and  now 
I'm  going  to  stay  until  I'm  sure  that  everything's 
all  right.  Besides,  Barry,"  she  moved  close  to  him, 
"you'll  need  me.  Won't  you?  Haven't  I  always 
been  near  you  when  you've  needed  me?  And 
aren't  you  taking  on  the  biggest  sort  of  job  now?" 

Houston  smiled  at  her.  True,  she  had  always 
been  near  in  time  of  trouble  and  it  was  only  natural 
that  now — 

"Of  course,"  came  his  answer.  "Come,  I'll  have 
you  made  comfortable  in  the  cottage."  Then,  as  he 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  105 

started  away,  "May  I  see  you,  Ba'tiste,  sometime 
to-night?" 

"Ah,  oui"  The  Canadian  was  moving  toward 
his  wagon  and  the  waiting  dog.  "In  the  cabin." 

Three  hours  later,  the  last  of  the  men  paid  off, 
Agnes  installed  in  the  best  of  three  little  cottages 
in  care  of  the  motherly  old  cook,  Barry  Houston 
approached  the  door  of  Ba'tiste's  cabin,  the  wolf- 
dog,  who  had  picked  him  up  a  hundred  yards  away, 
trotting  beside  him.  There  was  a  light  within;  in 
the  shadows  by  the  grave,  a  form  moved, — old  Lost 
Wing.  Medaine  was  there,  then.  Barry  raised 
his  hand  to  knock, — and  halted.  His  name  had 
been  mentioned  angrily;  then  again, — followed 
by  the  voice  of  the  girl: 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,  Ba'tiste.  Fred 
wouldn't  tell  me,  except  that  it  was  something  too 
horrible  for  me  to  know.  And  I  simply  can't  do 
what  you  say.  I  can't  be  pleasant  to  him  when  I 
feel  this  way." 

"But—"  " 

"Oh,  I  know.  I  want  to  be  fair,  and  I  try  to  be. 
I  speak  to  him  when  I  meet  him;  isn't  that  enough? 
We'ie  not  old  friends;  we're  hardly  even  acquaint- 
ances. And  if  there  is  something  in  his  past  to  be 

ashamed  of,  isn't  it  best  that  we  simply  remain  that 
way?  i_» 

Then  she  ceased.  Houston  had  knocked  on  the 
door.  A  second  later,  he  entered  the  cabin,  to  re- 
turn Medaine  Robinette's  cool  but  polite  greeting 
in  kind,  and  to  look  apprehensively  toward  Ba'- 


106  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

tiste  Henaud.  But  the  old  man's  smile  was 
genuine. 

"We  have  been  talk'  about  you,  out,  yes!"  he 
said.  "Eh,  Medaine?" 

It  was  one  of  his  thrusts.  The  girl  colored,  then 
turned  toward  the  door. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  stayed  longer  than  I  intended," 
she  apologized.  "It's  late.  Good  night." 

Then  she  was  gone.  Houston  looked  at  Ba'tiste, 
but  the  old  French-Canadian  merely  waved  a  big 
hand. 

"Woman,"  he  said  airily,  "peuff!  She  is  strange. 
Eet  is  nothing.  Eet  will  pass.  Now,"  as  though 
the  subject  had  been  dismissed,  "what  mus'  Ba'- 
teese  do?" 

"At  the  mill?  I  wish,  if  you  don't  mind,  that 
you'd  guard  it  for  me.  I'm  going  to  Denver  on  the 
morning  train  to  hire  a  new  crew.  I  don't  want 
Thayer  to  do  anything  to  the  mill  in  my  absence." 

"Ah,  oui.     It  shall  be.    You  will  sleep  here?" 

"If  you  don't  mind?     It's  nearer  Tabernacle." 

"Bon — good!  Golemar!"  And  the  dog  scratched 
at  the  door.  "Come,  we  shall  go  to  the  mill.  We 
are  the  watchmen,  yes?" 

"But  I  didn't  mean  for  you  to  start  to-night.  I 
just  thought — " 

"There  is  no  time  like  the  minute,"  answered  the 
Canadian  quietly.  "To-night,  you  shall  be  Ba'- 
teese,  oui,  yes.  Ba'teese  shall  be  you." 

Pulling  his  knit  cap  on  his  head,  he  went  out 
into  the  darkness  and  to  the  guardianship  of  the 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  107 

mill  that  belonged — to  a  man  who  looked  like  his 
Pierre.  As  for  Houston,  the  next  morning  found 
him  on  the  uncomfortable  red  cushions  of  the 
smoking  car  as  the  puffing  train  pulled  its  weary 
way  through  the  snowsheds  of  Crestline  Mountain, 
on  the  way  over  the  range.  Evening  brought  him 
to  Denver,  and  the  three  days  which  followed 
carried  with  them  the  sweaty  smell  of  the  employ- 
ment offices  and  the  gathering  of  a  new  crew. 
Then,  tired,  anxious  with  an  eagerness  that  he 
never  before  had  known,  he  turned  back  to  the 
hills. 

Before,  in  the  days  agone,  they  had  been  only 
mountains,  reminders  of  an  eruptive  time  in  the 
cooling  of  the  earth, — so  many  bumpy  places  upon 
a  topographical  railroad  map.  But  now, — now 
they  were  different.  They  seemed  like  home. 
They  were  the  future.  They  were  the  housing 
place  of  the  wide  spaces  where  the  streams  ran 
through  green  valleys,  where  the  sagebrush  dotted 
the  plateau  plains,  and  where  the  world  was  a  thing 
with  a  rim  about  it;  hills  soft  blue  and  brown  and 
gray  and  burning  red  in  the  sunlight,  black, 
crumpled  velvet  beneath  the  moon  and  stars ;  hills 
where  the  pines  grew,  where  his  life  awaited  him, 
a  new  thing  to  be  remolded  nearer  to  his  own  de- 
sires, and  where  lived  Ba'tiste,  Agnes — and 
Medaine. 

Houston  thought  of  her  with  a  sudden  cringing. 
In  that  moment  as  he  stood  outside  the  door  of 
Ba'tiste's  cabin,  he  had  heard  himself  sealed  and  de- 


108  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

livered  to  oblivion  as  far  as  she  was  concerned. 
He  was  only  an  acquaintance — one  with  a  grisly 
shadow  in  his  past — and  it  was  best  that  he  re- 
main such.  Grudgingly,  Barry  admitted  the  fact 
to  himself,  as  he  sat  once  more  in  the  red-plush 
smoking  car,  surrounded  by  heavy-shouldered, 
sodden-faced  men,  his  new  crew,  en  route  to  Em- 
pire Lake.  It  was  best.  There  was  Agnes,  with 
her  debt  of  gratitude  to  be  paid  and  with  her  affec- 
tion for  him,  which  in  its  blindness  could  not  dis- 
cern the  fact  that  it  was  repaid  only  as  a  sense  of 
duty.  There  was  the  fight  to  be  made, — and  the 
past.  Houston  shuddered  with  the  thought  of  it. 
Things  were  dnly  as  they  should  be;  grimly  he 
told  himself  that  he  had  erred  in  even  thinking  of 
happiness  such  as  comes  to  other  men.  His  life 
had  been  drab  and  gray;  it  must  remain  so. 

Past  the  gleaming  lakes  and  eternal  banks  of 
snow  the  train  crawled  to  the  top  of  the  world  at 
Crestline,  puffed  and  clattered  through  the  snow- 
sheds,  then  clambered  down  the  mountain  side  to 
Tabernacle.  With  his  dough-faced  men  about 
him,  Houston  sought  transportation,  at  last  to 
obtain  it,  then  started  the  journey  to  the  mill. 

Into  the  canon  and  to  the  last  rise.  Then  a 
figure  showed  before  him,  a  gigantic  form,  running 
and  tumbling  through  the  underbrush  at  one  side 
of  the  road,  a  dog  bounding  beside  him.  It  was 
Ba'tiste,  excited,  red-faced,  his  arms  waving  like 
windmills,  his  voice  booming  even  from  a  distance : 

"M'sieu  Houston!    M'sieu  Houston  1    Ba'teese 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  109 

have  fail!  Ba'teese  no  good!  He  watch  for  you 
— he  is  glad  you  come!  Ba'teese  ashame'! 
Ashame'!" 

He  had  reached  the  wagon  now,  panting,  still 
striving  to  talk  and  failing  for  lack  of  breath,  his 
big  hands  seeking  to  fill  in  the  spaces  where  words 
had  departed.  Houston  leaned  toward  him,  grip- 
ping him  by  a  massive  shoulder. 

"What's  happened?    What's- 

"Ba'teese  ashame' !"  came  again  between  puffs  of 
the  big  lungs.  "Ba'teese  watch  one,  two,  t'ree 
night.  Nothin'  happen.  Ba'teese  think  about  his 
lost  trap.  He  think  mebbe  there  is  one  place  where 
he  have  not  look'.  He  say  to  Golemar  he  will 
go  for  jus'  one,  two  hour.  Nobody  see,  he 
think.  So  he  go.  And  he  come  back.  Blooey! 
Eet  is  done!  Ba'teese  have  fail!" 

"But  what,  Ba'tiste?  It  wasn't  your  fault. 
Don't  feel  that  way  about  it?  Has  anything 
happened  to  Agnes?" 

"No.     The  mill." 

"They've—?" 

"Look!" 

They  had  reached  the  top  of  the  rise.  Below 
them  lay  something  which  caused  Barry  Houston 
to  leap  to  his  feet  unmindful  of  the  jolting  wagon, 
to  stand  weaving  with  white-gripped  hands,  to 
stare  with  suddenly  deadened  eyes — 

Upon  a  blackened,  smoldering  mass  of  charred 
timbers  and  twisted  machinery.  The  remainder  of 
all  that  once  had  been  his  mill! 


CHAPTER  X 

Words  would  not  come  for  a  moment.  Houston 
could  only  stare  and  realize  that  his  burden  had 
become  greater  than  ever.  In  the  wagons  behind 
him  were  twenty  men,  guaranteed  at  least  a  month 
of  labor,  and  now  there  was  nothing  to  provide  it. 
The  mill  was  gone;  the  blade  was  still  hanging  in 
its  sockets,  a  useless,  distempered  thing;  the  boiler 
was  bent  and  blackened,  the  belting  burned;  the 
carriages  and  muley  saws  and  edgers  and  trimmers 
were  only  so  much  junk.  He  turned  at  last  to 
Ba'tiste,  to  ask  tritely  what  he  knew  could  not  be 
answered : 

"But  how  did  it  happen,  Ba'tiste?  Didn't  any 
one  see?" 

The  Canadian  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Ba'teese  come  back.     Eet  is  done." 

"Let's  see  Agnes.  Maybe  she  can  tell  us  some- 
thing." 

But  the  woman,  her  arms  about  Houston's  neck, 
could  only  announce  hysterically  that  she  had  seen 
the  mill  burning,  that  she  had  sought  help  and  had 
failed  to  find  it. 

"Then  you  noticed  no  one  around  the  place?" 

"Only  Ba'tiste." 

"But  that  was  an  hour  or  so  before." 

The  big  French-Canadian  had  moved  away,  to 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  111 

stand  in  doleful  contemplation  of  the  charred  mass. 
The  voice  of  Agnes  Jierdon  sank  low: 

"I   don't  know,  Barry.     I  don't  want  to  ac- 


cuse— " 


"You  don't  mean—" 

"All  I  know  is  that  I  saw  him  leave  the  place 
and  go  over  the  hill.  Fifteen  minutes  later,  I  saw 
the  mill  burning  and  ran  down  there.  All  about 
the  place  rags  were  burning  and  I  could  smell 
kerosene.  That's  all  I  saw.  But  in  the  absence 
of  any  one  else,  what  should  a  person  think?" 

Houston's  lips  pressed  tight.  He  turned 
angrily,  the  old  grip  of  suspicion  upon  him, — sus- 
picion that  would  point  in  time  of  stress  to  every 
one  about  him,  suspicion  engendered  by  black  days 
of  hopelessness,  of  despair.  But  in  an  instant,  it 
all  was  gone ;  the  picture  of  Ba'tiste  Renaud,  stand- 
ing there  by  the  embers,  the  honesty  of  his  expres- 
sion of  sorrow,  the  slump  of  his  shoulders,  while 
the  dog,  unnoticed,  nuzzled  its  cold  nose  in  a  limp 
hand,  was  enough  to  wipe  it  all  out  forever.  Hous- 
ton's eyes  went  straight  to  those  of  Agnes  Jierdon 
and  centered  there. 

"Agnes,"  came  slowly,  "I  want  to  ask  a  favor. 
No  matter  what  may  happen,  no  matter  what  you 
may  think  personally,  there  is  one  man  who 
trusts  me  as  much  as  you  have  trusted  me,  and 
whom  I  shall  trust  in  return.  That  man  is  Ba'- 
tiste Renaud,  my  friend.  I  hope  you  can  find  a 
friend  in  him  too;  but  if  you  can't,  please,  for  me, 
never  mention  it." 


112  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"Why,  of  course  not,  Barry."  She  laughed  in 
an  embarrassed  manner  and  drew  away  from  him. 
"I  just  thought  I'd  tell  you  what  I  knew.  I 
didn't  have  any  idea  you  were  such  warm  com- 
rades. We'll  forget  the  whole  incident." 

"Thank  you."  Then  to  Ba'tiste  he  went,  to 
bang  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  with  an  effort  to 
whirl  him  a;bout.  "Well!"  he  demanded,  in  an 
echo  of  Ba'tiste's  own  thundering  manner,  "shall 
we  stand  here  and  weep?  Or — " 

"Eet  was  my  fault!"  The  French-Canadian 
still  stared  at  the  ruins.  "Eet  is  all  Ba'teese' 
fault—" 

"I  thought  you  were  my  friend,  Ba'tiste." 

"Sacre/    lam." 

"Then  show  it!  We'll  not  be  able  to  make  a 
case  against  the  firebugs — even  though  you  and  I 
may  be  fairly  sure  who  did  it.  Anyway,  it  isn't 
going  to  break  us.  I've  got  about  fifteen  thou- 
sand in  the  bank.  There's  enough  lumber  around 
here  to  build  a  new  saw-shed  of  a  sort,  and  money 
to  buy  a  few  saws,  even  if  we  can't  have  as  good 
a  place  as  we  had  before.  We  can  manage.  And 
I  need  help — I  won't  be  able  to  move  without  you. 
But—" 

"Out?" 

"But,"  and  Barry  smiled  at  him,  "if  you  ever 
mention  any  responsibility  for  this  thing  again — 
you're  fired.  Do  we  understand  each  other?" 

Very  slowly  the  big  trapper  turned  and  looked 
down  into  the  frank,  friendly  eyes  of  the 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  113 

younger  man.  He  blinked  slightly,  and  then 
one  tremendous  arm  encircled  Houston's  shoul- 
der for  just  a  moment.  At  last  a  smile  came,  to 
grow  stronger.  The  grip  about  the  shoulders 
tightened,  suddenly  to  give  way  to  a  whanging 
blow,  as  Batiste,  jovial  now,  drew  away,  pulled 
back  his  shoulders  and  squared  himself  as  though 
for  some  physical  encounter. 

"Ah,  ouir  He  bellowed.  "Oui,  oui,  out! 
Bon — good!  Ba'teese,  he  un'stan'.  Now  what 
you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Take  this  bunch  of  men  and  turn  to  at  clear- 
ing away  this  wreckage.  Then,"  and  he  smiled  his 
confidence  at  Renaud,  "make  your  plans  for  the 
building  of  a  saw-shed.  That  is — if  you  really 
want  to  go  through  with  it?" 

"Ah,  oui — ouir  The  Canadian  waved  his  arms 
excitedly  and  summoned  his  men.  For  a  moment, 
Barry  stood  watching,  then  returning  to  Agnes, 
escorted  her  toward  her  cottage. 

"Don't  you  think,"  he  asked,  as  they  walked 
along,  "that  you'd  better  be  going  back?  This 
isn't  just  the  place  for  a  woman,  Agnes." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because — well  for  one  thing,  this  is  a  man's  life 
out  here,  not  a  woman's.  There's  no  place  for  you 
— nothing  to  interest  you  or  hold  you.  I  can't 
guarantee  you  any  company  except  that  of  a  cook 
— or  some  one  like  that." 

"But  Mr.  Thayer — "  and  Houston  detected  a 
strange  tone  in  the  voice — "spoke  of  a  very  dear 


114  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

friend  of  yours,  in  whom  I  might  be  greatly  inter- 
ested." 

"A  friend  of  mine?" 

"Yes — a  Miss  Robinette.  Fred  said  that  she 
was  quite  interested  in  you." 

Houston  laugfied. 

"She  is — by  the  inverse  ratio.  So  much,  in  fact, 
that  she  doesn't  care  to  be  anywhere  near  me.  She 
knows — "  and  he  sobered,  "that  there's  something 
— back  there." 

"Indeed?"  They  had  reached  the  cottage  and 
the  subject  was  discontinued.  Agnes  lingered  a 
moment  on  the  veranda.  "I  suppose  I'm  never  to 
see  anything  of  you?" 

"That's  just  it,  Agnes.  It  makes  me  feel  like  a 
cad  to  have  you  out  here — and  then  not  to  be  able 
to  provide  any  entertainment  for  you.  And, 
really,  there's  no  need  to  worry  about  me.  I'm  all 
right — with  the  exception  of  this  broken  arm. 
And  it'll  be  all  right  in  a  couple  of  weeks.  Be- 
sides, there's  no  telling  what  may  happen.  You 
can  see  from  the  burning  of  this  mill  that  there 
isn't  any  love  lost  between  Thayer  and  myself." 

"Why,  Barry !  You  don't  think  he  had  anything 
to  do  with  it?"" 

"I  know  he  did.  Directly  or  indirectly,  he  was 
back  of  it.  I  haven't  had  much  of  a  chance  to  talk 
to  you,  Agnes,  but  this  much  is  a  certainty: 
Thayer  is  my  enemy,  for  business  reasons.  I 
know  of  jio  other.  He  believes  that  if  he  can  make 
the  going  rough  enough  for  me  that  I'll  quit, 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  115 

lease  him  my  stumpage,  and  let  him  go  into  busi- 
ness for  himself.  So  far,  he  hasn't  had  much  luck 
—except  to  tie  me  up.  He  may  beat  me;  I  don't 
know.  Then  again,  he  may  not.  But  in  the  mean- 
while, you  can  see,  Agnes,  that  the  battlefield  is 
going  to  be  no  place  for  a  woman." 

"But,  Barry,  you're  wrong.  I  think  you've 
done  an  injustice  to — " 

"Please  don't  tell  me  that,  Agnes.  I  put  so 
much  faith  in  your  beliefs.  But  in  this  case,  I've 
heard  it  from  his  own  lips — I've  seen  his  tele- 
grams. I  know!" 

The  woman  turned  quickly.  For  a  moment 
she  examined,  in  an  absent  sort  of  way,  the  blos- 
soms of  a  climbing  rose,  growing,  quite  uninvited, 
up  the  porch  pillar  of  the  cottage.  Then: 

"Maybe  you're  right,  Barry.  Probably  I  will 
go  away.  But  I  want  to  be  sure  that  you're  all 
right  first." 

"Would  you  care  to  go  to  the  village  to-night? 
There's  a  picture  show  there — and  we  could  at  least 
get  a  dish  of  ice  cream  and  some  candy." 

"I  think  not,"  came  the  answer  in  a  tired  voice. 
"It's  so  far;  besides,  all  this  excitement  has  given 
me  a  headache.  Go  back  to  your  work  and  forget 
about  me.  I  think  that  I'll  go  to  bed  immediately 
I've  had  something  to  eat." 

"You're  not  ill?" 

"Only  a  headache — and  with  me,  bed  is  always 
the  best  place  for  that.  I  suppose  you'll  go  to 
Denver  in  the  morning  for  new  saws?" 


US  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"Yes." 

"Then  I'll  wait  until  you  return  before  I  make 
up  my  mind.  Good-by."  She  bent  forward  to 
be  kissed,  and  Barry  obeyed  the  command  of  her 
lips  with  less  of  alacrity  than  ever  before.  Nor  could 
he  tell  the  reason.  Five  minutes  more  and  he  was 
back  at  the  mill,  giving  what  aid  he  could  with  his 
uninjured  arm. 

Night,  and  he  traveled  with  Ba'tiste  to  his  cabin, 
only  to  fret  nervously  about  the  place  and  at  last 
to  strike  out  once  more,  on  foot,  for  the  lumber 
camp.  He  was  worried,  nervous;  in  a  vague 
way  he  realized  that  he  had  been  curt,  almost 
brusque,  with  a  woman  for  whom  he  felt  every  pos- 
sible gratitude  and  consideration.  Nor  had  he 
inquired  about  her  when  work  had  ended  for  the 
day.  Had  the  excuse  of  a  headache  been  made 
only  to  cover  feelings  that  had  been  deeply  in- 
jured? Or  had  it  meant  a  blind  to  veil  real,  ser- 
ious illness?  For  three  years,  Barry  Houston  had 
known  Agnes  Jierdon  in  day-to-day  association. 
But  never  had  he  remembered  her  in  exactly  the 
light  that  he  had  seen  her  to-day.  There  had  been 
a  strangeness  about  her,  a  sharpness  that  he  could 
not  understand. 

He  stopped  just  at  the  entrance  to  the  mill  clear- 
ing and  looked  toward  the  cottage.  It  was  dark- 
ened. Barry  felt  that  without  at  least  the  beck- 
oning of  a  light  to  denote  the  wakefulness  of  the 
cook,  he  could  not  in  propriety  go  there,  even  for 
an  inquiry  regarding  the  condition  of  the  woman 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  117 

whom  he  felt  that  some  day  he  would  marry.  Aim- 
lessly he  wandered  about,  staring  in  the  moonlight 
at  the  piled-up  remains  of  his  mill,  then  at  last  he 
seated  himself  on  a  stack  of  lumber,  to  rest  a  mo- 
ment before  the  return  journey  to  Ba'tiste's  cabin. 
But  suddenly  he  tensed.  A  low  whistle  had  come 
from  the  edge  of  the  woods,  a  hundred  yards  away, 
and  Barry  listened  attentively  for  its  repetition, 
but  it  did  not  come.  Fifteen  minutes  he  waited, 
then  rose,  the  better  to  watch  two  figures  that  had 
appeared  for  just  a  moment  silhouetted  in  the 
moonlight  at  the  bald  top  of  a  small  hill.  A  man 
and  a  woman  were  walking  close  together, — the 
woman,  it  seemed,  with  her  head  against  the 
man's  shoulder;  the  man  evidently  with  his  arm 
about  her. 

There  was  no  time  for  identities.  A  second 
more  and  they  had  faded  into  the  shadows.  Barry 
rose  and  started  toward  the  darkened  cottage,  only 
to  turn  again  into  the  road. 

"Foolishness!"  he  chided  himself  as  he  plodded 
along.  "She  doesn't  know  any  one  but  Thayer — 
and  what  if  she  does?  It's  none  of  my  business. 
She's  the  one  who  has  the  claim  on  me;  I  have 
none  on  her!" 

And  with  this  decision  he  walked  on.  A  mile 
— two.  Then  a  figure  came  out  of  the  woods  just 
ahead  of  him,  cut  across  the  road  and  detoured 
into  the  scraggly  hills  on  the  other  side,  without 
noticing  the  approaching  Houston  in  the  shadows. 
But  Barry  had  been  more  fortunate.  The  moon- 


118  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

light  had  shown  full  on  the  man's  lean  face  and 
gangling  form;  it  was  undoubtedly  Fred  Thayer. 
He  was  still  in  the  neighborhood,  then. 

Had  he  been  the  man  in  the  woods, — the  one 
who  had  stood  silhouetted  on  the  hill  top?  Barry 
could  only  guess.  Again  he  chided  himself  for 
his  inquisitiveness  and  walked  on.  Almost  to 
Ba'tiste's  cabin  he  went;  at  last  to  turn  from  the 
road  at  the  sound  of  hoofbeats,  then  to  stare  as 
Medaine  Robinette,  on  horseback,  passed  him  at  a 
trot,  headed  toward  her  home,  the  shadowy  Lost 
Wing,  on  his  calico  pony,  straggling  along  in  the 
rear.  The  next  morning  he  went  to  Denver, 
still  wondering,  as  he  sought  to  make  himself  com- 
fortable on  the  old  red  plush  seats,  wondering 
whether  the  girl  he  had  seen  in  the  forest  with  the 
man  he  now  felt  sure  was  Fred  Thayer  had  been 
Agnes  Jierdon  or  Medaine  Robinette,  whom,  in 
spite  of  her  coldness  to  him,  in  spite  of  her  evident 
distaste  and  revulsion  that  was  so  apparent  in 
their  meetings,  had  awakened  within  him  a  thing  he 
had  believed,  in  the  drabness  of  his  gray,  harassed 
life,  could  never  exist, — the  thrill  and  the  yearnings 
of  love. 

It  was  a  question  which  haunted  him  during  the 
days  in  which  he  cut  into  his  bank  account  with  the 
purchase  of  the  bare  necessities  of  a  sawmill.  It 
was  a  question  which  followed  him  back  to  Taber- 
nacle, thence  across  country  to  camp.  But  it  was 
one  that  was  not  to  be  answered.  Things  had 
happened  again. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  119 

Ba'tiste  was  not  at  the  mill,  where  new  founda- 
tions had  appeared  in  Houston's  absence.  A  work- 
man pointed  vaguely  upward,  and  Barry  hurried 
on  toward  the  lake,  clambering  up  the  hill  nearest 
the  clearing,  that  he  might  take  the  higher  and 
shorter  road. 

He  found  no  Ba'tiste  but  there  was  something 
else  which  held  Houston's  interest  for  a  moment 
and  which  stopped  him,  staring  wonderingly  into 
the  distance.  A  new  skidway  had  made  its  appear- 
ance on  the  side  of  the  jutting  mountain  nearest 
the  dam.  Logs  were  tumbling  downward  in  slow, 
but  steady  succession,  to  disappear,  then  to  show 
themselves,  bobbing  jerkily  outward  toward  the 
center  of  the  lake.  That  skidway  had  not  been 
there  before.  Certainly,  work  at  the  mill  had  not 
progressed  to  such  an  extent  that  Ba'tiste  could  af- 
ford to  start  cutting  timber  already.  Houston 
turned  back  toward  the  lower  camp  road,,  wonder- 
ing vaguely  what  it  all  could  mean,  striving  to 
figure  why  Ba'tiste  should  have  turned  to  logging 
operations  instead  of  continuing  to  stress  every 
workman's  ability  on  the  rebuilding  of  the  burned 
structure.  A  mile  he  went — two — then  halted. 
A  thunderous  voice  was  booming  belligerently 
from  the  distance : 

"You  He — un'stan'?  Ba'teese  say  you  lie — if 
you  no  like  eet,  jus' — what-you-say — climb  up  me! 
Un'stan'  ?  Climb  up  me !" 

Houston  broke  into  a  run,  racing  along  the  flume 
with  constantly  increasing  speed  as  he  heard  out- 


120  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

burst  after  outburst  from  the  giant  trapper,  inter- 
jected by  tbe  lesser  sounds  of  argumentative 
voices  in  reply.  Faintly  he  heard  a  woman's  voice, 
then  Ba'tiste's  in,  sudden  command: 

"Go  on — you  no  belong  here,  Ba'tiste,  he 
handle  this.  Go  'long!" 

Faster  than  ever  went  Barry  Houston,  at  last 
to  make  the  turn  of  the  road  as  it  followed  the 
flume,  and  to  stop,  breathless,  just  in  time  to  es- 
cape colliding  with  the  broad  back  of  the  gigantic 
Canadian,  squared  as  he  was,  half  across  the  road. 
Facing  him  were  five  men  with  shovels  and  ham- 
mers, workmen  of  the  Blackburn  camp,  inter- 
rupted evidently  in  the  building  of  some  sort  of 
contraption  which  led  away  into  the  woods. 
Houston  looked  more  closely,  then  gasped.  It 
was  another  flume;  they  were  making  a  connection 
with  his  own;  already  water  had  been  diverted 
from  the  main  flume  and  was  flowing  down  the 
newly  boarded  conduit  which  led  to  the  Blackburn 
mill.  A  lunge  and  he  had  taken  his  place  beside 
Renaud. 

"What's  this  mean?"  he  demanded  angrily,  to 
hear  his  words  echoed  by  the  booming  voice  of  his 
big  companion: 

"Ah,  out!    Yes— what  this  mean?     Huh?" 

The  foreman  looked  up  caustically. 

"I've  told  you  about  ten  times,"  he  answered, 
addressing  himself  to  Ba'tiste.  "We're  building  a 
connection  on  our  flume." 

"Our    flume?"     Houston    gasped    the    words. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  121 

"Where  do  you  get  that  'our'  idea?    I  own  this 
flume  and  this  lake  and  this  flume  site — " 

"If  your  name's  Houston,  I  guess  you  do/'  came 
the  answer.  "But  if  you  can  read  and  write,,  you 
ought  to  know  that  while  you  may  own  it,  you 
don't  use  it.  That's  our  privilege  from  now  on,  in 
cold  black  and  white.  As  far  as  the  law  is  con- 
cerned, this  is  our  flume,  and  our  water,  and  our 
lake,  and  our  woods  back  there.  And  we're  going 
to  use  all  of  'em,  as  much  as  we  please — and  it's 
your  business  to  stay  out  of  our  way!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  statement  took  Houston  off  his  feet  for  a 
moment;  but  recovery  came  just  as  quickly,  a  re- 
coil with  the  red  splotches  of  anger  blazing  before 
his  eyes,  the  surge  of  hot  blood  sweeping  through 
his  veins,  the  heat  of  conflict  in  his  brain.  His 
good  hand  clenched.  A  leap  and  he  had  struck 
the  foreman  on  the  point  of  the  chin,  sending  him 
reeling  backward,  while  the  other  men  rushed  to 
his  assistance. 

"That's  my  answer  to  you!"  shouted  Houston. 
"This  is  my  flume  and—" 

"Run  tell  Thayer!"  shouted  the  foreman,  and 
then  with  recovering  strength,  he  turned  for  a  cant 
hook.  But  Ba'tiste  seized  it  first,  and  with  a  great 
wrench,  threw  it  far  out  of  the  way.  Then,  like 
some  great,  human  trip  hammer,  he  swung  into 
action,  spinning  Houston  out  of  the  way  as  he  went 
forward,  his  big  fists  churning,  his  voice  bellowing 
his  call  of  battle: 

"Climb  up  me!     Climb  up  me!" 

The  foreman  stooped  for  a  club, — and  rose  just 
in  time  to  be  lifted  even  higher,  at  the  point  of 
Ba'tiste's  right  fist,  then  to  drop  in  a  lump.  Then 
they  were  all  about  him,  seeking  for  an  opening, 
fists  pounding,  heavy  shoes  kicking  at  shins,  while 
in  the  rear,  Houston,  scrambling  around  with  his 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  123 

one  arm,  almost  happy  with  the  enthusiasm  of  bat- 
tle, swung  hard  and  often  at  every  opportunity, 
then  swerved  and  covered  until  he  could  bring  his 
fist  into  action  again. 

The  fight  grew  more  intense  with  a  last  spurt, 
then  died  out,  as  Ba'tiste,  seizing  the  smallest  of 
the  men,  lifted  him  bodily  and  swinging  him  much 
after  the  fashion  of  a  sack  of  meal,  literally  used 
him  as  a  battering  ram  against  the  rest  of  the 
attacking  forces.  For  a  last  time,  Houston  hit  a 
skirmisher  and  was  hit  in  return.  Then  Ba'tiste 
threw  his  human  weapon  from  him,  straight  into 
the  mass  of  men  whom  he  had  driven  back  for  a 
second,  tumbling  them  all  in  a  scrambling,  writh- 
ing heap  at  the  edge  of  the  flume. 

"Climb  up  me!"  he  bellowed,  as  they  struggled 
to  their  feet.  "Ah,  oui!"  And  the  big  arms 
moved  threateningly.  "Climb  up  me!" 

But  the  invitation  was  not  accepted.  Bloody, 
eyes  discolored,  mouth  and  nose  steadily  swelling, 
the  foreman  moved  away  with  his  battered  crew, 
finally  to  disappear  in  the  forest.  Ba'tiste 
reached  for  the  cant  hook,  and  balancing  it  lightly 
in  one  hand,  sought  a  resting  place  on  the  edge  of 
the  flume.  Houston  sat  beside  him. 

"What  on  earth  can  it  all  mean?"  he  asked,  after 
a  moment  of  thought. 

"They  go  back — get  more  men.  Mebbe  they 
think  they  whip  us,  oui?  Yes?  Ba'teese  use  this, 
nex'  time."  He  balanced  the  cant  hook,  examin- 
ing it  carefully  as  though  for  flaws  which  might 


124  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

cause  it  to  break  in  contact  with  a  human  target. 
Barry  went  on: 

"I  was  talking  about  the  flume.  You  heard 
what  that  fellow  said — that  they  had  the  woods, 
the  lake  and  the  flume  to  use  as  they  pleased? 
How—" 

"Mebbe  they  think  they  jus'  take  it." 

" Which  they  can't.  I'm  going  back  to  the  camp 
and  get  more  men." 

"No."  Ba'tiste  grinned.  "We  got  enough — 
you  an  Ba'teese.  I  catch  'em  with  this.  You  take 
that  club.  If  they  get  'round  me,  you,  what-you- 
say,  pickle  'em  off." 

But  the  expected  attack  did  not  come.  An  hour 
they  waited,  and  a  hour  after  that.  Still  no  crowd 
of  burly  men  came  surging  toward  them  from  the 
Blackburn  camp,  still  no  attempt  was  made  to 
wrest  from  their  possession  the  waterway  which 
they  had  taken  over  as  their  rightful  property. 
Houston  studied  the  flume. 

"We'll  have  to  get  some  men  up  here  and  rip 
out  this  connection,"  came  at  last.  "They've 
broken  off  our  end  entirely." 

"Ah,  oid!  But  we  will  stay  here.  By'm'by, 
Medaine  come.  We  will  send  her  for  men." 

"Medaine?     That   was   she   I   heard   talking?" 

"Oui.  She  had  come  to  ask  me  if  she  should 
bring  me  food.  She  was  riding.  Ba'teese  sen' 
her  away.  But  she  say  she  come  back  to  see  if 
Ba'teese  is  all  right." 

Houston  shook  his  head. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  125 

"That's  good.  But  I'm  afraid  that  you  won't 
find  her  doing  anything  to  help  me  out." 

"She  will  help  Ba'teese,"  came  simply  from  the 
big  man,  as  the  iron-bound  cant  hook  was 
examined  for  the  fiftieth  time.  "Why  they  no 
come,  huh?" 

"Search  me.  Do  you  suppose  they've  given 
it  up?  It's  a  bluff  on  their  part,  you  know, 
Ba'tiste.  They  have'nt  any  legal  right  to  this 
land  or  flume  or  anything  else;  they  just  figured 
that  my  mill  was  burned  and  that  I  wouldn't  be 
in  a  position  to  fight  them.  So  they  decided  to 
take  over  the  flume  and  try  to  force  us  into  letting 
them  have  it." 

"Here  comes  somebody!"  Ba'tiste's  grip  tight- 
ened about  the  cant  hook  and  her  rose,  squaring  him- 
self. Houston  seized  the  club  and  stood  waiting 
a  few  feet  in  the  rear,  in  readiness  for  any  one  who 
might  evade  the  bulwark  of  blows  which  Ba'tiste 
evidently  intended  to  set  up.  Far  in  the  woods 
showed  the  shadowy  forms  of  three  men,  approach- 
ing steadily  and  apparently  without  any  desire  for 
battle.  Ba'tiste  turned  sharply.  "Your  eye, 
keep  heem  open.  Eet  may  be  a  blind." 

But  Houston  searched  the  woods  in  vain.  There 
were  no  supporters  following  the  three  men,  no 
deploying  groups  seeking  to  flank  them.  A  mo- 
ment more,  and  Ba'tiste,  with  a  sudden  exclama- 
tion, allowed  his  cant  hook  to  drop  to  the  ground. 

"Wade!" 

"Who?"     Houston  came  closer. 


126  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"Eet  is  Thayer  and  Wade,  the  sheriff  from 
Montview,  and  his  deputy.  Peuff!  Have  he 
fool  heem  too?" 

Closer  they  came,  and  the  sheriff  waved  a  hand 
in  friendly  greeting.  Ba'tiste  returned  the  gest- 
ure. Thayer,  scowling,  black-faced,  dropped 
slightly  to  the  rear,  allowing  the  two  officials  to 
take  the  lead — and  evidently  do  the  talking. 
The  sheriff  grinned  as  he  noticed  the  cant  hook 
on  the  ground.  Then  he  looked  up  at  Ba'tiste 
Renaud. 

"What's  been  going  on  here?" 

"This  man,"  Ba'tiste  nodded  grudgingly  to- 
ward the  angular  form  of  Fred  Thayer,  "heem 
a  what-you-say  a  big  bomb.  This  my  frien', 
M'sieu  Houston.  He  own  this  flume.  This 
Thayer's  men,  they  try  to  jump  it." 

"From  the  looks  of  them,"  chuckled  the  sheriff, 
"you  jumped  them.  They've  got  a  young  hos- 
pital over  at  camp.  But  seriously,  Ba'tiste,  I  think 
you're  on  the  wrong  track.  Thayer  and  Black- 
burn have  a  perfect  right  to  this  flume  and  to  the 
use  of  the  lake  and  what  stump  age  they  want  from 
the  Houston  woods." 

"A  right?"  Barry  went  forward.  "What 
right?  I  haven't  given  them — " 

"You're  the  owner  of  the  land,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  in  a  way.     It  was  left  to  me  conditionally." 

"You  can  let  it  out  and  sell  the  stumpage  if 
you  want  to?" 

"Of  course." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  127 

"Then,  what  are  you  kicking  about?" 

"I — simply  on  account  of  the  fact  that  these 
men  have  no  right  to  be  on  the  land,  or  to  use  it  in 
any  way.  I  haven't  given  them  permission." 

"That's  funny,"  the  sheriff  scratched  his  head; 
"they've  just  proved  in  court  that  you  have." 

"In  court?     I—?" 

"Yeh.  I've  got  an  injunction  in  my  pocket  to 
prevent  you  from  interfering  with  them.  Judge 
Bardley  gave  it  in  Montview  about  an  hour  ago, 
and  we  came  over  by  automobile." 

"But  why?" 

"Why?"  the  sheriff  stared  at  him.  "When  you 
give  a  man  a  lease,  you  have  to  live  up  to  it  in 
this  country." 

"But  I've  given  no  one — " 

"Oh,  show  it  to  him,  sheriff."  Thayer  came 
angrily  forward.  "No  use  to  let  him  stand  there 
and  lie." 

"That's  what  I  want  to  see!"  Houston  squared 
himself  grimly,  "If  you've  got  a  lease,  or  anything 
else,  I  want  to  look  at  it." 

"You  know  your  own  writing,  don't  you?"  The 
sheriff  was  fishing  in  his  pockets. 

"Of  course." 

"You'd  admit  it  if  you  saw  it?" 

"I'm  not  trying  to  hide  anything.  But  I  know 
that  I've  not  given  any  lease,  and  I've  not  sold 
any  stump  age  and — " 

"Then,  what's  this?"  The  sheriff  had  pulled 
two  legal  documents  from  his  pocket,  and  unfold- 


128  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

ing  them,  had  shown  Houston  the  bottom  of  each. 
^Barry's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"That's — that's  my  signature,"  came  at  last. 

"This  one's  the   same,  isn't  it?"     The  second 
paper  was  shoved  forward. 
'   "Yes." 

"Then  I  don't  see  what  you're  kicking  about. 
Do  you  know  any  one  named  Jenkins,  who  is  a 
notary  public?" 

"He  works  in  my  office  in  Boston/' 

"That's  his  writing,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"And  his  seal." 

"I  suppose  so."  Bewildered,  Houston  was  look- 
ing at  the  papers  with  glazed  eyes.  "It  looks  like 
it." 

"Then,"  and  the  sheriff's  voice  went  brusque," 
what  right  have  you  to  try  to  run  these  men  off  of 
property  for  which  you've  given  them  a  bona-fide 
lease,  and  to  which  you've  just  admitted  your  signa- 
ture as  genuine?" 

"I've — I've  given  no  lease.     I — " 

"Then  look'em  over.  If  that  isn't  a  lease  to  the 
lake  and  flume  and  flume  site,  and  if  the  second  one 
isn't  a  contract  for  stumpage  at  a  dollar  and  a  half 
a  thousand  feet, — well,  then,  I  can't  read." 

"But  I'm  telling  you  that  I  didn't  give  it  to 
them."  Houston  had  reached  for  the  papers  with  a 
trembling  hand.  "There's  a  fraud  about  it  some- 
where!" 

"I  don't  see  where  there  can  be  any  fraud  when 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  129 

you  admit  your  signature,  and  there's  a  notary's 
seal  attached." 

"But  there  is !     I  can't  tell  you  why — but — " 

"Statements  Mke  that  don't  count  in  law.  There 
are  the  papers  and  they're  duly  signed  and  you've 
admitted  your  signature.'  If  there's  any  fraud 
about  it,  you've  got  the  right  to  prove  it.  But  in 
the  meanwhile,  the  court's  injunction  stands. 
You've  leased  this  land  to  these  men,  and  you  can't 
interfere  with  them.  Understand  ?" 

"All  right."  Houston  moved  hazily  back,  away 
from  the  flume  site.  Ba'tiste  stood  staring  glumly, 
wondering,  at  the  papers  which  had  been  returned 
to  the  sheriff.  "But  I  know  this,  that  it's  a  fakery 
— somehow — and  I'll  prove  it.  I  have  absolutely 
no  memory  of  ever  signing  any  such  papers  as  that, 
or  of  even  talking  to  any  one  about  selling  stumpage 
at  a  figure  that  you  should  know  is  ridiculous. 
Why,  you  can't  even  buy  the  worst  kind  of  timber 
from  the  government  at  that  price!  I  don't  re- 
member— " 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?"  Thayer  had  turned  to  the 
sheriff.  "There  he  goes  pulling  that  loss  of  mem- 
ory stunt  again.  That's  one  of  his  best  little  bets," 
he  added  sneering,  "to  lose  his  memory." 

"I've  never  lost  it  yet!" 

"No — then  you  can  forget  things  awfully  easy. 
Such  as  coming  out  here  and  pretending  not  to  know 
who  you  were.  Guess  you  forgot  your  identity  for 
a  minute,  didn't  you?  Just  like  you  forgot  signing 
this  lease  and  stumpage  contract!  Yeh,  you're 


130  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

good  at  that — losing  your  memory.  You  never  re- 
member anything  that  happens.  You  can't  even 
remember  the  night  you  murdered  your  own  cousin, 
can  you?" 

"That's  a—' 

"See,  sheriff?  His  memory's  bad."  All  the  mal- 
ice and  hate  of  pent-up  enmity  was  in  Fred  Thayer's 
voice  now.  One  gnarled  hand  went  forward  in  ac- 
cusation. "He  can't  even  remember  how  he  killed 
his  own  cousin.  But  if  he  can't,  I  can.  Ask  him 
about  the  time  when  he  slipped  that  mallet  in  his 
pocket  at  a  prize  fight  and  then  went  on  out  with  his 
cousin.  Ask  him  what  became  of  Tom  Langdon 
after  they  left  that  prize  fight.  He  won't  be  able 
to  tell  you,  of  course.  He  loses  his  memory ;  all  he 
will  be  able  to  remember  is  that  his  father  spent  a 
lot  of  money  and  hired  some  good  lawyers  and  got 
him  out  of  it.  He  won't  be  able  to  tell  you  a  thing 
about  how  his  own  cousin  was  found  with  his  skull 
crushed  in,  and  the  bloody  wooden  mallet  lying  be- 
side him — the  mallet  that  this  fellow  had  stolen 
the  night  before  at  a  prize  fight!  He  won't — " 

White-hot  with  anger,  Barry  Houston  lurched 
forward,  to  find  himself  caught  in  the  arms  of  the 
sheriff  and  thrown  back.  He  whirled, — and 
stopped,  looking  with  glazed,  deadened  eyes  into 
the  blanched,  horrified  features  of  a  girl  who  evi- 
dently had  heard  the  accusation,  a  girl  who  stood 
poised  in  revulsion  a  moment  before  she  turned,  and, 
almost  running,  hurried  to  mount  her  horse  and  ride 
away.  And  the  strength  of  anger  left  the  muscles 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  131 

of  Barry  Houston.  The  red  flame  of  indignation 
turned  to  a  sodden,  dead  thing.  He  could  only  re- 
alize that  Medaine  Robinette  now  knew  the  story. 
That  Medaine  Robinette  had  heard  him  accused 
without  a  single  statement  given  in  his  own  behalf; 
that  Medaine,  the  girl  of  his  smoke-wreathed 
dreams,  now  fully  and  thoroughly  believed  him — 
a  murderer! 


CHAPTER  XII 

Dully  Houston  turned  back  to  the  sheriff  and  to 
the  goggle-eyed  Ba'tiste,  trying  to  fathom  it  all. 
Weakly  he  motioned  toward  Thayer,  and  his  words, 
when  they  came,  were  hollow  and  expressionless: 

"That's  a  lie,  Sheriff.  I'll  admit  that  I  have  been 
accused  of  murder.  I  was  acquitted.  You  say  that 
nothing  counts  but  the  court  action — and  that's  all 
I  have  to  say  in  my  behalf.  The  jury  found  me 
not  guilty.  In  regard — to  this,  I'll  obey  the  court 
order  until  I  can  prove  to  the  judge's  satisfaction 
that  this  whole  thing  is  a  fraud  and  a  fake.  In  the 
meanwhile — "  he  turned  anxiously,  almost  pit- 
eously,  "do  you  care  to  go  with  me,  Ba'tiste?" 

Heavily,  silently,  the  French- Canadian  joined 
him,  and  together  they  walked  down  the  narrow 
road  to  the  camp.  Neither  spoke  for  a  long  time. 
Ba'tiste  walked  with  his  head  deep  between  his 
shoulders,  and  Houston  knew  that  memories  were 
heavy  upon  him,  memories  of  his  Julienne  and  the 
day  that  he  came  home  to  find,  instead  of  a  waiting 
wife,  only  a  mound  beneath  the  sighing  pines  and  a 
stalwart  cross  above  it.  As  for  Houston,  his  own 
life  had  gone  gray  with  the  sudden  recurrence  of  the 
past.  He  lived  again  the  first  days  of  it  all,  when 
life  had  been  one  constant  repetition  of  questions, 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  133 

then  solitude,  questions  and  solitude,  as  the  homi- 
cide squad  brought  him  up  from  his  cell  to  inquire 
about  some  new  angle  that  they  had  come  upon,  to 
question  him  regarding  his  actions  on  the  night  of 
the  death  of  Tom  Langdon,  then  to  send  him  back 
to  "think  it  over"  in  the  hope  that  the  constant 
tangle  of  questions  might  cause  him  to  change  his 
story  and  give  them  an  opening  wedge  through 
which  they  could  force  him  to  a  confession.  He 
lived  again  the  black  hours  in  the  dingy  courtroom, 
with  its  shadows  and  soot  spots  brushing  against  the 
window,  the  twelve  blank-faced  men  in  the  jury 
box,  and  the  witnesses,  one  after  another,  who  went 
to  the  box  in  an  effort  to  swear  his  life  away.  He 
went  again  through  the  agony  of  the  new  freedom 
— the  freedom  of  a  man  imprisoned  by  stronger 
things  than  mere  bars  and  cells  of  steel — when  first 
he  had  gone  into  the  world  to  strive  to  fight  back  to 
the  position  he  had  occupied  before  the  pall  of  ac- 
cusation had  descended  upon  him,  and  to  fight 
seemingly  in  vain.  Friends  had  vanished,  a  father 
had  gone  to  his  grave,  believing  almost  to  the  last 
that  it  had  been  his  money  and  the  astuteness  of 
his  lawyers  that  had  obtained  freedom  for  a  guilty 
son,  certainly  not  a  self -evidence  of  innocence  that 
had  caused  the  twelve  men  to  report  back  to  the 
judge  that  they  had  been  unable  to  force  their  con- 
victions "beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt."  A  night- 
mare had  it  been  and  a  nightmare  it  was  again,  as 
drawn- featured,  stoop-shouldered,  suddenly  old  and 
haggard,  Barry  Houston  walked  down  the  logging 


134  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

road  beside  a  man  whose  mind  also  had  been  recalled 
to  thoughts  of  murder.  A  sudden  fear  went  over 
the  younger  man;  he  wondered  whether  this  great 
being  who  walked  at  his  side  had  believed,  and  at 
last  in  desperation,  he  faced  him. 

"Well,  Ba'tiste,"  came  in  strained  tones,  "I 
might  as  well  hear  it  now  as  at  any  other  time. 
They've  about  got  me  whipped,  anyway,  so  you'll 
only  be  leaving  a  sinking  ship." 

"What  you  mean?"  The  French-Canadian 
stopped. 

"Just  the  plain  facts.  I'm  about  at  the  end  of 
my  rope ;  my  mill's  all  but  gone,  my  flume  is  in  the 
hands  of  some  one  else,  my  lake  is  leased,  and 
Thayer  can  make  as  many  inroads  on  my  timber  as 
he  cares  to,  as  long  as  he  appeases  the  court  by  pay- 
ing me  the  magnificent  sum  of  a  dollar  and  a  half  a 
thousand  for  it.  So,  you  see,  there  isn't  much  left 
for  me." 

"What  you  do  ?" 

"That  depends  entirely  on  you — and  what  effect 
that  accusation  made.  If  you're  with  me,  I  fight. 
If  not — well  frankly — I  don't  know." 

"'Member  the  mill,  when  he  burn  down?" 

"Yes." 

"You  no  believe  Ba'teese  did  heem.  Oui,  yes? 
Well,  now  I  no  believe  either!" 

"Honestly,  Ba'tiste  ?"  Houston  had  gripped  the 
other  man's  arm.  "You  don't  believe  it?  You 
don't—" 

"Ba'teese  believe  M'sieu  Houston.   [You  look  like 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  135 

my  Pierre.     My  Pierre,  he  could  do  no  wrong. 
Ba'teese  satisfy." 

It  sent  a  new  flow  of  blood  through  the  veins  of 
Barry  Houston, — that  simple,  quiet  statement  of 
the  old  trapper.  He  felt  again  a  surge  of  the  fight- 
ing instinct,  the  desire  to  keep  on  and  on,  to  struggle 
until  the  end,  and  to  accept  nothing  except  the  bit- 
terest, most  absolute  defeat.  He  quickened  his 
pace,  the  French-Canadian  falling  in  with  him. 
His  voice  bore  a  vibrant  tone,  almost  of  excitement : 

"I'm  going  back  to  Boston  to-night.  I'm  going 
to  find  out  about  this.  I  can  get  a  machine  at  Tab- 
ernacle to  take  me  over  the  range;  it  may  save  me 
time  in  catching  a  train  at  Denver.  There's  some 
fraud,  Ba'tiste.  I  know  it — and  I'll  prove  it  if  I 
can  get  back  to  Boston.  We'll  stop  by  the  cottage 
down  here  and  see  Miss  Jierdon;  then  I'm  gone!" 

"She  no  there.  She,  what-you-say,  smash  up 
'quaintance  with  Medaine.  She  ask  to  go  there 
and  stay  day  or  two." 

"Then  she'll  straighten  things  out,  Ba'tiste.  I'm 
glad  of  it.  She  knows  the  truth  about  this  whole 
thing — every  step  of  the  way.  Will  you  tell 
her?" 

"Oui.  Ba'teese  tell  her — about  the  flume  and 
M'sieu  Thayer,  what  he  say.  But  Ba'teese — " 

"What?"' 

The  trapper  was  silent  a  moment.     At  last: 

"You  like  her,  eh?" 

"Medaine?" 

"No— the  other." 


136  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"A  great  deal,  Ba'teese.  She  has  meant  every- 
thing to  me ;  she  was  my  one  friend  when  I  was  in 
trouble.  She  even  went  on  the  stand  and  testified 
for  me.  What  were  you  going  to  say?" 

"Nothing,"  came  the  enigmatical  reply.  "Ba'- 
teese will  wait  here.  You  go  Boston  to-night?" 

"Yes." 

And  that  night,  in  the  moonlight,  behind  the 
rushing  engine  of  a  motor  car,  Barry  Houston  once 
more  rode  the  heights  where  Mount  Taluchen 
frowned  down  from  its  snowy  pinnacles,  where  the 
road  was  narrow  and  the  turns  sharp,  and  where  the 
world  beneath  was  built  upon  a  scale  of  miniature. 
But  this  time,  the  drifts  had  faded  from  beside  the 
highway;  nodding  flowers  showed  in  the  moonlight; 
the  snow  flurries  were  gone.  Soon  the  downward 
grade  had  come  and  after  that  the  straggling  little 
town  of  Dominion.  Early  morning  found  Hous- 
ton in  Denver,  searching  the  train  schedules.  That 
night  he  was  far  from  the  mountains,  hurrying  half 
across  the  continent  in  search  of  the  thing  that 
would  give  him  back  his  birthright. 

Weazened,  wrinkle-faced  little  Jenkins  met  him 
at  the  office,  to  stare  in  apparent  surprise,  then  to 
rush  forward  with  well-simulated  enthusiasm. 

"You're  back,  Mr.  Houston!  I'm  so  glad.  I 
didn't  know  whether  to  send  the  notice  out  to  you 
in  Colorado,  or  wire  you.  It  just  came  yesterday." 

"The  notice?     Of  what?" 

"The  M.  P.  &  S.  L.  call  for  bids.  You've  heard 
about  it." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  137 

But  Houston  shook  his  head.     Jenkins  stared. 

"I  thought  you  had.  The  Mountain,  Plains  and 
Salt  Lake  Railroad.  I  thought  you  knew  all  about 
it." 

"The  one  that's  tunneling  Carrow  Peak?  I've 
heard  about  the  road,  but  I  didn't  know  they  were 
ready  for  bids  for  the  western  side  of  the  mountain 
yet.  Where's  the  notice?" 

"Right  on  your  desk,  sir." 

Abstractedly,  Houston  picked  it  up  and  glanced 
at  the  specifications, — for  railroad  ties  by  the  mil- 
lion, for  lumber,  lathes,  station-house  material, 
bridge  timbers,  and  the  thousands  of  other  lumber 
items  that  go  into  the  making  of  a  road.  Hastily 
he  scanned  the  printed  lines,  only  at  last  to  place  it 
despondently  in  a  pocket. 

"Millions  of  dollars,"  he  murmured.  "Millions 
— for  somebody!" 

And  Houston  could  not  help  feeling  that  it  was 
for  the  one  man  he  hated,  Fred  Thayer.  The 
specifications  called  for  freight  on  board  at  the  spurs 
at  Tabernacle,  evidently  soon  to  have  competition 
in  the  way  of  railroad  lines.  And  Tabernacle 
meant  just  one  thing,  the  output  of  a  mill  which 
could  afford  to  put  that  lumber  at  the  given  point 
cheaper  then  any  other.  The  nearest  other  camp 
was  either  a  hundred  miles  away,  on  the  western 
side,  or  so  far  removed  over  the  range  in  the  matter 
of  altitude  that  the  freight  rates  would  be  prohibi- 
tive to  a  cheaper  bid.  Thayer,  with  his  ill-gotten 
flume,  with  his  lake,  with  his  right  to  denude  Barry 


138  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

Houston's  forests  at  an  insignificant  cost,  could  out- 
bid the  others.  He  would  land  the  contract, 
unless — 

"Jenkins  1"  Houston's  voice  was  sharp,  insistent. 
The  weazened  man  entered,  rubbing  his  hands. 

"Yes,  sir.     Right  here,  sir." 

"What  contracts  have  we  in  the  files?" 

"Several,  sir.  One  for  mining  timber  stulls, 
logs,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  for  the  Machol  Mine  at 
Idaho  Springs;  one  for  the  Tramway  company  in 
Denver  for  two  thousand  ties  to  be  delivered  in 
June;  one  for — " 

"I  don't  mean  that  sort.  Are  there  any  stump- 
age  contracts?" 

"Only  one,  sir." 

"One?    What!" 

"The  one  you  signed,  sir,  to  Thayer  and  Black- 
burn, just  a  week  or  so  before  you  started  out  West. 
Don't  you  remember,  sir;  you  signed  it,  together 
with  a  lease  for  the  flume  site  and  lake?" 

"I  signed  nothing  of  the  sort!" 

"But  you  did,  sir.  I  attested  it.  I'll  show  it  to 
you  in  just  a  moment,  sir.  I  have  the  copy  right 
here."  ' 

A  minute  later,  Barry  Houston  was  staring  down 
at  the  printed  lines  of  a  copy  of  the  contract  and 
lease  which  had  been  shown  him,  days  before,  out  in 
the  mountains  of  Colorado.  Blankly  he  looked  to- 
ward the  servile  Jenkins,  awaiting  the  return  of  the 
documents,  then  toward  the  papers  again. 

"And  I  signed  these,  did  I?" 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  139 

"You  certainly  did,  sir.  It  was  about  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  I  remember  it  perfectly." 

"You're  lying!" 

"I  don't  lie,  sir.  I  attested  the  signature  and  saw 
you  read  both  contracts.  Pardon,  sir,  but  if  any 
one's  lying,  sir — it's  yourself! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Ten  minutes  after  that,  Barry  Houston  was 
alone  in  his  office.  Jenkins  was  gone,  discharged; 
and  Houston  felt  a  sort  of  relief  in  the  knowledge 
that  he  had  departed.  The  last  of  the  Thayer 
clan,  he  believed,  had  been  cleaned  out  of  his  organi- 
zation— and  it  was  like  lightening  a  burden  to  re- 
alize it. 

That  the  lease  and  stumpage  contract  were 
fraudulent,  Barry  Houston  was  certain.  Surely 
he  had  seen  neither  of  them;  and  the  signing  must 
have  been  through  some  sort  of  trickery  of  which  he 
was  unaware.  But  would  such  a  statement  hold  in 
court?  Houston  learned,  a  half -hour  later,  that  it 
wouldn't,  as  he  faced  the  family  attorney,  in  his  big, 
bleak,  old-fashioned  office. 

"It's  all  right,  Barry,  for  you  to  tell  me  that  you 
didn't  sign  it,"  came  the  edict.  "I'd  believe  you — 
because  I  feel  sure  you  wouldn't  lie  to  me.  But  it 
would  be  pretty  thin  stuff  to  tell  to  a  jury.  There 
is  the  contract  and  the  lease  in  black  and  white. 
Both  bear  your  signature  which,  you  have  declared 
in  the  presence  of  witnesses,  to  be  genuine.  Even 
when  a  man  signs  a  paper  while  insane,  it's  a  hard 
job  to  pull  it  back;  and  we  certainly  wouldn't  have 
any  witnesses  who  could  swear  that  you  had  lost 
your  reason." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  141 

"Nope,"  he  concluded,  giving  the  papers  a  flip, 
as  though  disposing  of  the  whole  matter,  "somebody 
has  just  worked  the  old  sewing-machine  racket  on 
you — with  trimmings.  This  is  an  adaptation  of  a 
game  that  is  as  old  as  the  hills — the  one  where  the 
solicitors  would  go  up  to  a  farmhouse,  sell  a  man  a 
sewing-machine  or  a  cream  separator  at  a  ridic- 
ulous figure,  let  him  sign  what  he  thought  was  a  con- 
tract to  pay  a  certain  amount  a  month  for  twelve 
months — and  then  take  the  promissory  note  which 
he  really  had  signed  down  to  the  bank  and  discount 
it.  Instead  of  a  promissory  note,  they  made  this  a 
contract  and  a  lease.  And  just  to  make  it  good, 
they  had  their  confederate,  a  legalized  notary  pub- 
lic, put  his  seal  upon  it  as  a  witness.  You  can't  re- 
member when  all  this  happened?" 

"According  to  Jenkins* — who  put  the  notary  seal 
on  there — the  whole  thing  was  put  over  about  a 
week  or  so  before  I  left  for  the  West.  That's  the 
date  on  them  too.  About  that  time,  I  remember,  I 
had  a  good  many  papers  to  sign.  A  lot  of  legal 
stuff,  if  you'll  remember,  came  up  about  father's 
estate,  in  which  my  signature  was  more  of  a  form 
than  anything  else.  I  naturally  suspected  nothing, 
and  in  one  or  two  instances  signed  without  read- 
ing." 

"And  signed  away  your  birthright — to  this  con- 
tract and  lease.  You  did  it  with  no  intention  of 
giving  your  land  and  flume  and  flume  site  away, 
that's  true.  If  one  of  the  men  would  be  willing  to 
confess  to  a  conspiracy,  it  would  hold  water  in  court 


142  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

Otherwise  not.  You've  been  bunked,  and  your 
signature  is  as  legal  and  as  binding  as  though  you 
had  read  that  contract  and  lease- form  a  hundred 
times  over.  So  I  don't  see  anything  to  do  but  to 
swallow  your  medicine  with  as  little  of  a  wry  face 
as  possible." 

It  was  with  this  ultimatum  that  Houston  turned 
again  for  the  West,  glad  to  be  out  of  Boston,  glad 
to  be  headed  back  once  more  for  the  mountains,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  shadows  of  his  life  had  fol- 
lowed him  even  there,  that  the  ill  luck  which  seemed 
to  have  been  perched  continuously  on  his  shoulders 
for  the  past  two  years  still  hovered,  like  a  vulture, 
above  him.  What  he  was  going  to  do,  how  he 
could  hope  to  combat  the  obstacles  which  had  arisen 
was  more  than  he  could  tell.  He  had  gone  into  the 
West,  believing,  at  worst,  that  he  would  be  forced 
to  become  the  general  factotum  of  his  own  business. 
Now  he  found  there  was  not  even  a  business;  his 
very  foundations  had  been  swept  from  beneath  him, 
leaving  only  the  determination,  the  grim,  earnest 
resolution  to  succeed  where  all  was  failure  and  to 
fight  to  victory — but  how? 

Personally,  he  could  not  answer  the  question,  and 
he  longed  for  the  sight  of  the  shambling  little  station 
at  Tabernacle,  with  Ba'tiste,  in  answer  to  the  tele- 
gram he  had  sent  from  Chicago,  awaiting  him  with 
the  buggy  from  camp.  And  Ba'tiste  was  there,  to 
boom  at  him,  to  call  Golemar's  attention  to  the  fact 
that  a  visit  to  a  physician  in  Boston  had  relieved  the 
bandaged  arm  of  all  except  the  .slightest  form  of  a 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  143 

splint,  and  to  literally  lift  Houston  into  the  buggy, 
tossing  his  baggage  in  after  him,  then  plump  in 
beside  him  with  excited  happiness. 

"Bon!"  he  rumbled.  "It  is  good  you  are  back. 
Ba'teese,  he  was  lonely.  Ba'teese,  he  was  so  ex- 
cite' when  he  hear  you  come.  He  have  good 
news !" 

"About  what?" 

"The  railroad.  They  are  near'  through  with  the 
tunnel.  Now  they  shall  start  upon  the  main  road 
to  Salt  Lake.  And  they  shall  need  timbers — 
beaucoup!  Ties  and  beams  and  materials!  They 
have  ask  for  bids.  Ah,  oui.  Eet  is,  what-you-say, 
the  swollen  chance!  M'sieu  Houston  shall  bid 
lower  than — " 

"How,  Ba'tiste?"  Houston  asked  the  question 
with  a  dullness  that  caused  the  aged  trapper  to 
turn  almost  angrily  upon  him. 

"How?  Is  eet  putty  that  you  are  made  of? 
Is  eet — but  no,  Ba'teese,  he,  what-you-say,  mis- 
place his  head.  You  think  there  is  no  chance,  eh? 
Mebbe  not.  Me'bbe— " 

"I  found  a  copy  of  that  contract  in  our  files. 
The  clerk  I  had  in  the  office  was  in  the  conspiracy. 
I  fired  him  and  closed  everything  up  there ;  as  far 
as  a  Boston  end  to  the  business  is  concerned,  there 
is  none.  But  the  damage  is  done.  My  lawyer 
says  that  there  is  not  a  chance  to  fight  this  thing 
in  court." 

"Ah,  oui.  I  expec'  that  much.  But  Ba'teese, 
he  think,  mebbe,  of  another  way.  Eh,  Golemar?" 


144  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

He  shouted  to  the  dog,  trotting,  as  usual,  beside 
the  buggy.  "Mebbe  we  have  a,  what-you-say, 
punch  of  luck." 

Then,  silent,  he  leaned  over  the  reins.  Hous- 
ton too  was  quiet,  striving  in  vain  to  find  a  way 
out  of  the  difficulties  that  beset  him.  At  the  end 
of  half  an  hour  he  looked  up  in  surprise.  They 
no  longer  were  on  the  way  to  the  mill.  The  road 
had  become  rougher,  hillier,  and  Houston  recog- 
nized the  stream  and  the  aspen  groves  which  fringed 
the  highway  leading  to  Ba'tiste's  cabin.  But  the 
buggy  skirted  the  cabin,  at  last  to  bring  into  sight  a 
snug,  well-built,  pretty  little  cottage  which  Houston 
knew,  instinctively,  to  be  the  home  of  Medaine 
Robinette.  At  the  veranda,  Ba'tiste  pulled  on  the 
reins  and  alighted. 

"Come,"  he  ordered  quietlty. 

"But—" 

"She  have  land,  and  she  have  a  part  of  the  lake 
and  a  flume  site." 

Houston  hung  back. 

"Isn't  it  a  bad  bet,  Ba'tiste?  Have  you  talked 
to  her?" 

"No — I  have  not  seen  her  since  the  day — at  the 
flume.  She  is  here' — Lost  Wing  is  at  the  back  of 
the  cabin.  We  will  talk  to  her,  you  and  I.  Mebbe, 
when  the  spring  come,  she  will  lease  to  you  the  lake 
and  the  flume  site.  Mebbe — " 

"Very  well."  But  Houston  said  it  against  his 
will.  He  felt,  in  the  first  place,  that  he  would  be 
presuming  to  ask  it  of  her, — himself  a  stranger 


THE  WHITE  DESERT 

against  whom  had  come  the  accusation  of  murder, 
hardly  denied.  Yet,  withal,  in  a  way,  he  welcomed 
the  chance  to  see  her  and  to  seek  to  explain  to  her 
the  deadly  thrusts  which  Fred  Thayer  had  sent 
against  him.  Then  too  a  sudden  hope  came;  Ba'- 
tiste  had  said  that  Agnes  Jierdon  had  become 
friendly  with  her;  certainly  she  had  told  the  truth 
and  righted  the  wrongs  of  malicious  treachery. 
He  joined  Ba'tiste  with  a  bound.  A  moment  more 
and  the  door  had  opened,  to  reveal  Medaine,  re- 
pressed excitement  in  her  eyes,  her  features  a  trifle 
pale,  her  hand  trembling  slightly  as  she  extended 
it  to  Ba'tiste.  Houston  she  received  with  a  bow, 
—forced,  he  thought.  They  went  within,  and  Ba'- 
tiste pulled  his  queer  little  cap  from  his  head,  to 
crush  it  in  the  grasp  of  his  massive  hands. 

"We  have  come  for  business,  Medaine,"  he  an- 
nounced, with  a  slight  show  of  embarrassment. 
"M'sieu  Houston,  he  have  need  for  a  flume  site." 

"But  I  don't  see  where  I  could  be  of  any  assist- 
ance. I  have  no  right — " 

"Ah!  But  eet  is  not  for  the  moment  present. 
Eet  is  for  the  springtime." 

She  seemed  to  hesitate  then  and  Houston  took 
a  sudden  resolve.  It  might  as  well  be  now  as 
later. 

"Miss  Robinette,"  he  began,  coming  forward,  "I 
realize  that  all  this  needs  some  explanation. 
Especially,"  and  he  halted,  "about  myself." 

"But  is  that  any  of  my  affair?"  Her  old  pert- 
ness  was  gone.  She  seemed  white  and  frightened, 


146  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

as  though  about  to  listen  to  something  she  would 
rather  not  hear.  Houston  answered  her  as  best  he 
could: 

"That  depends  upon  yourself,  Miss  Robinette. 
Naturally,  you  wouldn't  want  to  have  any  business 
dealings  with  a  man  who  really  was  all  that  you 
must  believe  me  to  be.  It  isn't  a  pleasant  thing 
for  me  to  talk  about — I  would  like  to  forget  it. 
But  in  this  case,  it  has  been  brought  up  against  my 
will.  You  were  present  a  week  ago  when  Thayer 
accused  me  of  murder." 

"Yes." 

"Eet  was  a  big  lie!" 

"Wait  just  a  minute,  Ba'tiste."  Cold  sweat  had 
made  its  appearance  on  Barry  Houston's  forehead. 
"I — I — am  forced  to  admit  that  a  part  of  what  he 
said  was  true.  When  I  first  met  Ba'tiste  here,  I 
told  him  there  was  a  shadow  in  my  life  that  I  did 
not  like  to  talk  about.  He  was  good  enough  to  say 
that  he  didn't  want  to  hear  it.  I  felt  that  out  here, 
perhaps  I  would  not  be  harassed  by  certain  mem- 
ories that  have  been  rather  hard  for  me  to  bear  in 
the  last  couple  of  years.  I  was  wrong.  The 
thing  has  come  up  again,  in  worse  form  than  ever 
and  without  giving  me  a  chance  to  make  a  denial. 
But  perhaps  you  know  the  whole  story?" 

"Your  story?"  Medaine  Robinette  looked  at 
him  queerly.  "No — I  never  have  heard  it." 

"Then  you've  heard—" 

"Only  accusations." 

"Is  it  fair  to  believe  only  one  side  of  a  thing?" 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  147 

"Please,  Mr.  Houston,"  and  she  looked  at  him 
with  a  certain  note  of  pleading,  "y°u  must  remem- 
that  I — well,  I  didn't  feel  that  it  was  any  of  my 
business.  I  didn't  know  that  circumstances  would 
throw  you  at  all  in  my  path." 

"But  they  have,  Miss  Robinette.  The  land  on 
my  side  of  the  creek  has  been  taken  from  me  by 
fraud.  It  is  absolutely  vital  that  I  use  every  re- 
source to  try  to  make  my  mill  what  it  should  be. 
It  still  is  possible  for  me  to  obtain  lumber,  but  to 
get  it  to  the  mill  necessitates  a  flume  and  rights  in 
the  lake.  I've  lost  that.  We've  been  hoping, 
Ba'tiste  and  myself,  that  we  would  be  able  to  in- 
duce you  to  lease  us  your  portion  of  the  lake  and 
a  flume  site.  Otherwise,  I'm  afraid  there  isn't 
much  hope." 

"As  I  said,  that  doesn't  become  my  property 
until  late  spring,  nearly  summer,  in  fact." 

"That  is  time  enough.  We  are  hoping  to  be 
able  to  bid  for  the  railroad  contract.  I  believe  it 
calls  for  the  first  shipment  of  ties  about  June  first. 
That  would  give  us  plenty  of  time.  If  we  had 
your  word,  we  could  go  ahead,  assemble  the  neces- 
sary machinery,  snake  a  certain  amount  of  logs 
down  through  the  snow  this  winter  and  be  in  readi- 
ness when  the  right  moment  came.  Without  it, 
however,  we  can  hardly  hope  for  a  sufficient  supply 
to  carry  us  through.  And  so — " 

"You  want  to  know — about  heem.  You  have 
Ba'teese's  word " 

"Really — "    she  seemed   to   be   fencing   again. 


148  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

Houston,  with  a  hard  pull  at  his  breath,  came 
directly  to  the  question. 

"It's  simply  this,  Miss  Robinette.  If  I  am 
guilty  of  those  things,  you  don't  want  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  me,  and  I  don't  want  you  to. 
But  I  am  here  to  tell  you  that  I  am  not  guilty,  and 
that  it  all  has  been  a  horrible  blunder  of  circum- 
stance. It  is  very  true  in  one  sense — "  and  his 
voice  lowered — "that  about  two  years  ago  in  Bos- 
ton, I  was  arrested  and  tried  for  murder." 

"So  Mr.  Thayer  said." 

"I  was  acquitted — but  not  'for  the  reason  Thayer 
gave.  They  couldn't  make  a  case,  they  failed 
absolutely  to  prove  a  thing  which,  had  I  really  been 
guilty,  should  have  been  a  simple  matter.  A1 
worthless  cousin,  Tom  Langdon,  was  the  man  who 
was  murdered.  They  said  I  did  it  with  a  wooden 
mallet  which  I  had  taken  from  a  prize  fight,  and 
which  had  been  used  to  hammer  on  the  gong  for 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  the  rounds.  I  had 
been  seen  to  take  it  from  the  fight,  and  it  was 
found  the  next  morning  beside  Langdon.  There 
was  human  blood  on  it.  I  had  been  the  last  per- 
son seen  with  Langdon.  They  put  two  and  two 
together — and  tried  to  convict  me  on  circumstan- 
tial evidence.  But  they  couldn't  convince  the  jury; 
I  went  free,  as  I  should  have  done.  I  was  inno- 
cent!" 

Houston,  white  now  with  the  memories  and  with 
the  necessity  of  retailing  again  in  the  presence  of 
a  girl  who,  to  him,  stood  for  all  that  could  mean 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  149 

happiness,  gritted  his  teeth  for  the  determination 
to  go  on  with  the  grisly  thing,  to  hide  nothing  in 
the  answers  to  the  questions  which  she  might  ask. 
But  Medaine  Robinette,  standing  beside  the  win- 
dow, the  color  gone  from  her  cheeks,  one  hand 
fingering  the  curtains,  eyes  turned  without,  gave 
no  evidence  that  she  had  heard.  Ba'tiste,  staring 
at  her,  waited  a  moment  for  her  question.  It  did 
not  come.  He  turned  to  Houston. 

"You  tell  eet!"  he  ordered.  There  was  some- 
thing of  the  father  about  him, — the  father  with  a 
wayward  boy,  fearful  of  the  story  that  might  come, 
yet  determined  to  do  everything  within  his  power 
to  aid  a  person  he  loved.  Houston  straightened. 

"I'll  try  riot  to  shield  myself  in  any  way,"  came 
at  last.  The  words  were  directed  to  Ba'tiste,  but 
meant  for  Medaine  Robinette.  "There  are  some 
things  about  it  that  I'd  rather  not  tell — I  wish  I 
could  leave  them  out.  But — it  all  goes.  My  word 
of  honor — if  that  counts  for  anything — goes  with  it. 
It's  the  truth,  nothing  else. 

"I  had  come  home  from  France — invalided  back. 
The  records  of  the  Twenty-sixth  will  prove  that. 
Gas.  I  was  slated  for  out  here — the  recuperation 
hospital  at  Denver.  But  we  managed  to  persuade 
the  army  authorities  that  I  could  get  better  treat- 
ment at,  home,  and  they  gave  me  a  disability  dis- 
charge in  about  ten  months — honorable,  of  course. 
After  a  while,  I  went  back  to  work,  still  weak,  but 
rather  eager  to  get  at  it,  in  an  effort  to  gather  up 
the  strands  which  had  become  tangled  by  the  war. 


150  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

I  was  in  the  real-estate  business  then,  for  myself. 
Then,  one  afternoon,"  his  breath  pulled  sharp, 
"Tom  Langdon  came  into  my  office." 

"He  was  your   cousin?"     Ba'tiste's  voice  was 
that  of  a  friendly  cross-examiner. 

"Yes.  I  hadn't  seen  him  in  five  years.  We 
had  never  had  much  to  do  with  him;  we,"  and 
Houston  smiled  coldly  with  the  turn  that  Fate  had 
given  to  conditions  in  the  Houston  family,  "always 
had  looked  on  him  as  a  sort  of  a  black  sheep.  He 
had  been  a  runaway  from  home;  about  the  only 
letters  my  uncle  ever  had  received  from  him  had 
asked  for  money  to  get  him  out  of  trouble.  Where 
he  had  been  this  time,  I  don't  know.  He  asked 
for  my  father  and  appeared  anxious  to  see  him. 
I  told  him  that  father  was  out  of  town.  Then  he 
said  he  would  stay  in  Boston  until  he  came  back, 
that  he  had  information  for  him  that  was  of  the 
greatest  importance,  and  that  when  he  told  father 
what  it  was,  that  he,  Langdon,  could  have  any- 
thing my  father  possessed  in  the  way  of  a  job  and 
a  competence  for  life.  It  sounded  like  blackmail 
—I  could  think  of  nothing  else  coming  from  Tom 
Langdon — and  I  told  him  so.  That  was  unfor- 
tunate. There  were  several  persons  in  my  office 
at  the  time.  He  resented  the  statement  and  we 
quarreled.  They  heard  it  and  later  testified." 

Houston  halted,  tongue  licking  at  dry  lips. 
Medaine  still  gave  no  indication  that  she  had  heard. 
Ba'tiste,  his  knit  cap  still  crushed  in  his  big  hands, 
moved  forward. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  151 

"Go  on." 

"Gradually,  the  quarrel  wore  off  and  Tom  be- 
came more  than  friendly,  still  harping,  however, 
on  the  fact  that  he  had  tremendous  news  for  my 
father.  I  tried  to  get  rid  of  him.  It  was  impos- 
sible. He  suggested  that  we  go  to  dinner  together 
and  insisted  upon  it.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
acquiesce;  especially  as  I  now  was  trying  to  draw 
from  him  something  of  what  had  brought  him  there. 
We  had  wine.  I  was  weak  physically.  It  went 
to  my  head,  and  Tom  seemed  to  take  a  delight  in 
keeping  my  glass  full.  Oh,"  and  he  swerved  sud- 
denly toward  the  woman  at  the  window,  "I'm  not 
trying  to  make  any  excuses  for  myself.  I  wanted 
it— after  that  first  glass  or  two,  it  seemed  there 
wasn't  enough  in  the  world.  He  didn't  force  it  on 
me — he  didn't  play  the  part  of  a  tempter  or  pour 
it  down  my  throat.  I  took  it  readily  enough^ 
But  I  couldn't  stand  it.  We  left  the  cafe,  he  fairly 
intoxicated,  myself  greatly  so.  We  saw  the  ad- 
vertisement of  a  prize  fight  and  went,  getting  seats 
near  the  ring-side.  They  weren't  close  enough  for 
me.  I  bribed  a  fellow  to  let  me  sit  at  the  press 
stand,  next  to  the  timekeeper,  and  worried  him 
until  he  let  me  have  the  mallet  that  he  was  using 
to  strike  the  'gong. 

"The  fight  was  exciting — especially  to  me  in 
my  condition.  I  was  standing  most  of  the  time, 
even  leaning  on  the  ring.  Once,  while  in  this  posi- 
tion, one  of  the  men,  who  was  bleeding,  was 
knocked  down.  He  struck  the  mallet.  It  became 


152  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

covered  with  blood.  No  one  seemed  to  notice  that, 
except  myself — every  one  was  too  excited.  A  mo- 
ment more  and  the  fight  was  over,  through  a  knock- 
out. Then  I  stuck  the  mallet  in  my  pocket,  tel- 
ling every  one  who  cared  to  hear  that  I  was  carry- 
ing away  a  souvenir.  Langdon  and  I  went  out 
together. 

"We  started  home — for  he  had  announced  that 
he  was  going  to  spend  the  night  with  me.  Per- 
sons about  us  heard  him.  It  was  not  far  to  the 
house  and  we  decided  to  walk.  On  the  way,  he 
demanded  the  mallet  for  himself  and  pulled  it  out 
of  my  pocket.  I  struggled  with  him  for  it,  finally 
however,  to  be  bested,  and  started  away.  He  fol- 
lowed me  a  block  or  so,  taunting  me  with  his 
superior  strength  and  cursing  me  as  the  son  of  a 
man  whom  he  intended  to  make  bow  to  his  every 
wish.  I  ran  then  and,  evading  him,  went  home 
and  to  bed.  About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  I 
was  awakened  by  the  police.  They  had  found 
Tom  Langdon  dead,  with  his  skull  crushed,  evi- 
dently by  the  blow  of  a  club  or  a  hammer.  They 
said  I  did  it." 

A  slight  gasp  traveled  over  the  lips  of  Medaine, 
still  by  the  window.  Ba'tiste,  his  features  old  and 
lined,  reached  out  with  one  big  hand  and  patted 
the  man  on  the  shoulder.  Then  for  a  long  time, 
there  was  silence. 

"Eet  is  the  lie,  eh?" 

"Ba'tiste,"  Houston  turned  appealingly  to  him 
"as  I  live,  that's  all  I  know.     I  never  saw  Langdon 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  153 

after  he  took  that  mallet  from  me.  Some  one 
killed  him,  evidently  while  he  was  wandering 
around,  looking  for  me.  The  mallet  dropped  by 
his  side.  It  had  blood  on  it — and  they  accused  me. 
It  looked  right — there  was  every  form  of  circum- 
stantial evidence  against  me.  And,"  the  breath 
pulled  hard,  "what  was  worse,  everybody  believed 
that  I  killed  him.  Even  my  best  friends — even 
my  father." 

"Ba'teese  no  believe  it." 

"Why?"  Houston  turned  to  him  in  hope, — 
in  the  glimmering  chance  that  perhaps  there  was 
something  in  the  train  of  circumstances  that  would 
have  prevented  the  actuality  of  guilt.  But  the 
answer,  while  it  cheered  him,  was  rather  discon- 
certing. 

"You  look  like  my  Pierre.  Pierre,  he  could 
do  no  wrong.  You  look  like  heem." 

It  was  sufficient  for  the  old  French-Canadian. 
But  Houston  knew  it  could  carry  but  little  weight 
with  the  girl  by  the  window.  He  went  on : 

"Only  one  shred  of  evidence  was  presented  in 
my  behalf.  It  was  by  a  woman  who  had  worked 
for  about  six  months  for  my  father, — Miss  Jierdon. 
She  testified  to  having  passed  in  a  taxicab  just  at 
the  end  of  our  quarrel,  and  that,  while  it  was  true 
that  there  was  evidence  of  a  struggle,  Langdon  had 
the  mallet.  She  was  my  only  witness,  besides  the 
experts.  But  it  may  help  here,  Miss  Robinette." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  addressed  her  directly 
and  she  turned,  half  in  surprise. 


154  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"How,"  she  asked  the  question  as  though  with 
an  effort,  "how  were  you  cleared?" 

"Through  expert  medical  testimony  that  the 
blow  which  killed  Langdon  could  not  have  been 
struck  with  that  mallet.  The  whole  trial  hinged 
on  the  experts.  The  jury  didn't  believe  much  of 
either  side.  They  couldn't  decide  absolutely  that 
I  had  killed  Langdon.  And  so  they  acquitted  me. 
I'm  trying  to  tell  you  the  truth,  without  any 
veneer  to  my  advantage." 

"Bon!    Good!     Eet  is  best." 

"Miss  Jierdon  is  the  same  one  who  is  out  here?" 

"Yes." 

"She  testified  in  your  behalf?" 

"Yes.  And  Miss  Robinette,  if  you'll  only  talk  to 
her — if  you'll  only  ask  her  about  it,  she'll  tell  you  the 
story  exactly  as  I've  told  it.  She  trusted  me;  she 
was  the  only  bright  spot  in  all  the  blackness.  I 
may  not  be  able  to  convince  you — but  she  could, 
Miss  Robinette.  If  you'll  only — " 

"Would  you  guarantee  the  truth  of  anything  she 
should  tell  me?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Even  if  she  told  hidden  things?" 

"Hidden?  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
There's  nothing  to  be  hidden.  What  she  tells  you 
will  be  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  the  absolute 
truth." 

"I'm — I'm  sorry."  She  turned  again  to  the  win- 
dow. Houston  went  forward. 

"Sorry?    Why?     There's  nothing—" 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  155 

"Miss  Jierdon  has  told  me,"  came  in  a  strained 
voice,  "things  that  perhaps  you  did  not  mean  for 
her  to  tell." 

"I?     Why,  I—" 

"That  she  did  pass  as  you  were  struggling. 
That  she  saw  the  blow  struck — and  that  it  was  you 
who  struck  it." 

"Miss  Robinette!" 

"That  further,  you  confessed  to  her  and  told  her 
why  you  had  killed  Langdon — because  he  had  dis- 
covered something  in  your  own  father's  life  that 
would  serve  as  blackmail.  That  she  loved  you. 
And  that  because  she  loved  you,  she  went  on  the 
stand  and  perjured  herself  to  save  you  from  a  con- 
viction of  murder — when  she  knew  in  her  heart  that 
you  were  guilty!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

It  was  a  blow  greater,  far  greater  than  one  that 
could  have  been  struck  in  mere  physical  contact. 
Houston  reeled  with  the  effect  of  it;  he  gasped, 
he  struggled  aimlessly,  futilely,  for  words  to  answer 
it.  Vaguely,  dizzily,  knowing  nothing  except  a  dim, 
hazy  desire  to  rid  himself  of  the  loathsomeness  of 
it,  Houston  started  to  the  door,  only  to  be  pulled 
back  in  the  gigantic  grip  of  Ba'tiste  Renaud. 
The  old  Canadian  was  glaring  now,  his  voice  was 
thunderous. 

"No!  No!  You  shall  not  go!  You  hear  Ba'- 
teese,  huh?  You  tell  Medaine  that  is  a  lie! 
Un'stan'?  That  is  a  lie!" 

"It  is,"  Houston  heard  his  voice  as  though  com- 
ing from  far  away,  "but  I  don't  know  how  to 
answer  it.  I — I — can't  answer  it.  Where  is  Miss 
Jierdon?  Is  she  here?  May  I  see  her?" 

"Miss  Jierdon,"  Medaine  Robinette  answered 
him  as  though  with  an  effort,  "went  back  to  camp 
last  night." 

"May  I  bring  her  here,  to  repeat  that  before  me? 
There's  been  some  sort  of  a  horrible  mistake — she 
didn't  know  what  she  was  saying.  She — " 

"I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Houston,  that  I  would  need 
stronger  evidence — now.  Oh,  I  want  to  be  fair 
about  this,"  she  burst  out  suddenly.  "I — I 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  157 

shouldn't  ever  have  been  drawn  into  it.  It's  noth- 
ing of  my  concern;  certainly,  I  shouldn't  be  the  one 
to  be  called  upon  to  judge  the  innocence  or  guilt 
of  some  one  I  hardly  know!  I — " 

"I  realize  that,  Miss  Robinette.  I  withdraw  my 
request  for  anything  you  can  give  me."  Again  he 
started  toward  the  door,  and  this  time  Ba'tiste  did 
not  detain  him.  But  abruptly  he  halted,  a  sudden 
thought  searing  its  way  through  his  brain.  "Just 
one  moment  more,  Miss  Robinette.  Then  I'll  go. 
But  this  question  means  a  great  deal.  You  passed 
me  one  night  on  the  road.  Would  it  be  imperti- 
nent to  ask  where  you  had  been?" 

"Certainly  not.  To  Tabernacle.  Lost  Wing 
went  with  me,  as  usual.  You  may  ask  him." 

"Your  word  is  enough.  May  I  inquire  if  on 
that  night  you  saw  Fred  Thayer?" 

"I  did  not." 

"Thank  you."  Dully  he  reached  for  the  knob. 
The  woman  who  had  appeared  that  night  in  the 
clearing,  her  head  upon  a  man's  shoulder,  had  been 
Agnes  Jierdon! 

He  stepped  to  the  veranda,  waiting  for  Ba'tiste, 
who  was  making  a  last  effort  in  his  behalf.  Then 
he  called: 

"I'd  rather  you'd  not  say  anything  more,  Ba'- 
tiste., Words  aren't  much  use — without  something 
to  back  them  up." 

And  he  knew  that  this  possibility  was  all  but 
gone.  Tricked !  For  now  he  realized  that  Agnes 
Jierdon  had  stood  by  him  at  a  time  when  her  sup- 


158  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

posed  confidence  and  trust  could  do  no  more  for 
him  than  cheer  him  and  cause  him  to  trust  her  to 
the  end  that, — what? 

Had  it  been  she  who  had  slipped  the  necessary 
papers  of  the  contract  and  the  lease  into  the  mass 
of  formalities  which  he  had  signed  without  even  look- 
ing at  the  contents  of  more  than  the  first  page  or  two 
of  the  pile?  They  had  been  so  many  technical  de- 
tails, merely  there  for  signature;  he  had  signed 
dozens  before.  It  would  have  been  easy. 

But  Houston  forced  back  the  thought.  He  him- 
self knew  what  it  meant  to  be  unjustly  accused. 
Time  was  but  of  little  moment  now;  his  theories 
could  wait  until  he  had  seen  Agnes  Jierdon,  until  he 
had  talked  to  her  and  questioned  her  regarding  the 
statements  made  to  Medaine  Robinette.  Besides, 
Ba'tiste  already  was  in  the  buggy,  striving  to 
cover  his  feelings  by  a  stream  of  badinage  directed 
toward  Golemar,  the  wolf-dog,  and  waiting  for 
Houston  to  take  his  place  beside  him.  A  moment 
more  and  they  were  driving  away,  Ba'tiste  humped 
over  the  reins  as  usual,  Houston  striving  to  put 
from  him  the  agony  of  the  new  accusation. 
Finally,  the  trapper  cocked  his  head  and  spoke, 
rather  to  the  horse  and  Golemar  than  to  Houston. 

"Eet  is  the  one,  big  lie!" 

"Yes,  but  there's  not  much  way  of  proving  it, 
Ba'tiste." 

"Proof?  Bah!  And  does  Ba'teese  need  proof? 
Ba'teese  no  like  this  woman,  Jierdon.  She  say 
Ba'teese  burn  the  mill." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  159 

"I  didn't  know  you  heard  that." 

"She  have  a  bad  mouth.  She  have  a  bad  eye. 
She  have  a  bad  tongue.  Yes,  oui!  She  have  a 
bad  tongue!" 

4CLet's  wait,  Ba'tiste.  There  may  be  some  mis- 
take about  it.  Of  course,  it's  possible.  She  had 
worked  for  my  father  for  six  months  at  the  time 
• — she  could  have  been  placed  there  for  a  purpose. 
Her  testimony  was  of  the  sort  that  the  jury  could 
take  either  as  for  me  or  against  me ;  she  established, 
as  an  eyewitness,  that  we  had  quarreled  and  that 
the  mallet  played  a  part  in  it.  Naturally,  though, 
I  looked  to  her  as  my  friend.  I  thought  that  her 
testimony  helped  me." 

"And  the  taxi-driver?  What  did  he  say? 
Eh?" 

"We  never  were  able  to  find  him." 

"Oh,  ho!  Golemar!  You  hear?"  The  old 
trapper's  voice  was  stinging  with  sarcasm.  "They 
nev'  fin'  heem.  But  the  woman  she  was  in  a  taxi. 
Ah,  oui.  She  could  pass,  just  at  the  moment. 
She  could  put  in  the  mind  of  the  jury  the  fact  that 
there  was  a  quarrel,  while  she  preten'  to  help 
M'sieu  Houston.  But  the  taxi-driver — no,  they 
nev'  fin'  heem!" 

"Let's  wait,  Ba'tiste." 

"Oh— ah,  oui." 

On  they  drove  in  silence,  talking  of  trivial  things, 
each  fencing  away  from  the  subject  that  was  on 
their  minds  and  from  mention  of  the  unfortunate 
interview  with  Medaine  Robinette,  The  miles 


160  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

faded  slowly,  at  last  to  bring  the  camp  into  view. 
Ten  minutes  later,  Houston  leaped  from  the  buggy 
and  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  cottage. 

"I  want  to  see  Miss  Jierdon,"  he  told  the  cook 
who  had  opened  the  door.  That  person  shook  her 
head. 

"She's  gone." 

"Gone?     Where?" 

"To  town,  I  guess.  She  came  back  here  from 
Miss  Robinette's  last  night  and  packed  her  things 
and  left.  She  didn't  say  where  she  was  going. 
She  left  a  note  for  you."' 

"Let  me  have  it!"  There  was  anxiety  in  the 
command.  The  cook  bustled  back  into  the  house, 
to  return  with  a  sealed  envelope  addressed  to 
Houston.  He  slit  it  with  a  trembling  finger. 

"What  she  say?"  Ba'tiste  was  leaning  from 
the  buggy.  Houston  took  his  place  beside  him, 
and  as  the  horse  was  turned  back  toward  the  trap- 
per's cabin,  read  aloud: 

"Dearest  Barry: 

"Hate  awfully  to  run  away  like  this  with- 
out seeing  you,  but  it  can't  be  helped.     Have 
an  offer  of  a  position  in  St.  Louis  that  I  can't 
very  well  refuse.     Will  write  you  from  there. 
"Love  and  kisses. 

"AGNES." 

Ba'tiste  slapped  the  reins  on  the  horse's  back. 

"She  is  like  the  Judas,  eh?"  he  asked  quietly,  and 

Houston  cringed  with  the  realization  that  he  had 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  161 

spoken  the  truth.  Judas!  A  feminine  Judas, 
who  had  come  to  him  when  his  guard  had  been  low- 
ered, who  had  pretended  that  she  believed  in  him, 
that  she  even  loved  him,  that  she  might  wreck  his 
every  plan  and  hope  in  life.  A  Judas,  a — 

"Let's  don't  talk  about  it,  Ba'tiste!"  Houston's 
voice  was  hoarse,  weary.  "It's  a  little  too  much  to 
take,  all  in  one  day." 

"Tres  bien"  answered  the  old  French-Canadian, 
not  to  speak  again  until  they  had  reached  his  cabin 
and,  red-faced,  he  had  turned  from  the  stove  to 
place  the  evening  meal  on  the  table.  Then,  his 
mouth  full  of  crisply  fried  bacon,  he  waved  a  hand 
and  spluttered  with  a  sudden  inspiration: 

"What  you  do,  now?" 

"Queer  question,  isn't  it?"  The  grim  humor  of 
it  brought  a  smile,  in  spite  of  the  lead  in  Houston's 
heart.  "What  is  there  to  do?" 

"What?"  Ba'tiste  gulped  his  food,  rose  and 
waved  a  hand  with  a  sudden  flash  of  emphasis. 
"Peuff!  And  there  is  ever 'thin'.  You  have  a 
mill." 

"Such  as  it  is." 

"But  eet  is  a  mill.  And  eet  can  saw  timber — 
enough  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door.  You  have 
yourself.  Your  arm,  he  is  near'  well.  And  there 
is  alway' — "  he  gestured  profoundly — "the  fu- 
ture. He  is  like  a  woman,  the  future,"  he  added, 
with  a  little  smile.  "He  always  look  good  when 
he  is  in  the  far  away." 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  trapper  found  a  faint  echo 


162  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

in  Houston's  heart.  "I'm  not  whipped  yet,  Ba'tiste. 
But  I'm  near  it.  I've  had  some  pretty  hard 
knocks." 

"Ah,  owl  But  so  have  Ba'teese!"  The  shad- 
ows were  falling,  and  the  old  French-Canadian 
walked  to  the  window.  "Oui,  oui,  oui!  Look." 
And  he  pointed  to  the  white  cross,  still  faintly  visi- 
ble, like  a  luminous  thing,  beneath  the  pines.  "Ev' 
day,  Ba'teese,  he  see  that.  Ev'  day,  Ba'teese  re- 
member— how  he  work  for  others,  how  he  is 
LJ  MJsieu  Doctaire,  how  he  help  and  help  and  help 
— but  how  he  cannot  help  his  own.  Ev'  day,  Ba'- 
teese, he  live  again  that  night  in  the  cathedral 
when  he  call,  so,  'Pierre!  Pierre!'  But  Pierre 
does  not  answer.  Ev'  day,  he  remind  how  he  come 
home,  and  how  his  heart,  eet  is  cold,  but  how  he 
hope  that  his  Julienne,  she  will  warm  eet  again — to 
fin'  that.  But  does  Ba'teese  stop?  Does  Ba'teese 
fol'  his  hands?  No!  No!"  He  thundered  the 
words  and  beat  his  heavy  chest.  "Some  day,  Ba'- 
teese will  fin'  what  he  look  for!  When  the  cloud, 
he  get  heavy,  Ba'teese,  he  go  out  there — out  to  his 
Julienne — and  he  kneel  down  and  he  pray  that  she 
give  to  heem  the  strength  to  go  on — -to  look  and 
look  and  look  until  he  find  eet — the  thing  he  is 
want'!  Ba'teese,  he  too  have  had  his  trouble. 
Ba'teese,  he  too  would  like  to  quit!  But  no,  he 
shall  not!  And  you  shall  not!  By  the  cross  of 
my  Julienne,  you  shall  not!  Eet  is  to  the  end — 
and  not  before!  You  look  like  my  Pierre!  My 
Pierre  had  in  heem  the  blood  of  Ba'teese — Ba'teese, 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  163 

who  had  broke'  the  way.  And  Pierre  would  not 
quit,  and  you  will  not  quit.  And— 

"I  will  not  quit!"  Barry  Houston  said  the 
words  slowly,  in  a  voice  heightened  by  feeling  and 
by  a  new  strength,  a  sudden  flooding  of  a  reserve 
power  that  he  did  not  know  he  possessed.  "That  is 
my  absolute  promise  to  you,  Ba'tiste.  I  will  not 
quit!" 

"Bon!  Good!  Golemar,  you  hear,  eh?  Mon 
ami,  he  come  to  the  barrier,  and  he  look  at  the  trou- 
ble, but  he  say  he  will  not  quit.  Veritas!  Eon! 
He  is  my  Pierre !  He  speak  like  my  Pierre  would 
speak!  He  will  not  quit!" 

"No,"  and  then  Houston  repeated  it,  a  strange 
light  shining  in  his  eyes,  his  hands  clenched,  breath 
pulling  deep  into  his  lungs.  "I  will  not  quit." 

"All,  oui!  Eet  is  now  the,  what-you-say,  the 
swing-around  point.  To-night  Ba'teese  go  out. 
Where?  Ah,  you  shall  wait  an'  see.  Ba'teese  go 
— Ba'teese  come  back.  Then  you  shall  see.  Ah, 
oui!  Then  you  shall  see." 

For  an  hour  or  so  after  that  he  boomed  about  the 
cabin,  singing  queer  old  songs  in  a  patois,,  rumbling 
to  the  faithful  Golemar,  washing  the  dishes  while 
Houston  wiped  them,  joking,  talking  of  every- 
thing but  the  troubles  of  the  day  and  the  plans  of 
the  night.  Outside  the  shadows  grew  heavier, 
finally  to  turn  to  pitch  darkness.  The  bull  bats 
began  to  circle  about  the  cabin.  Ba'tiste  walked  to 
the  door. 

"Bon!    Good!"  he  exclaimed.     "The  sky,  he  is 


164  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

full  of  cloud'.  The  star,  he  do  not  shine.  Bon! 
Ba'teese  shall  go." 

And  with  a  final  wave  of  the  hand,  still  keeping 
his  journey  a  mystery,  he  went  forth  into  the  night. 

Long  Houston  waited  for  his  return,  but  he  did 
not  come.  The  old,  creaking  clock  on  the  rustic 
ledge  ticked  away  the  minutes  and  the  hours  until 
midnight,  but  still  no  crunching  of  gravel  relieved 
his  anxious  ears,  still  no  gigantic  form  of  the  griz- 
zled, bearded  trapper  showed  in  the  doorway. 
One  o'clock  came  and  went.  Two — three. 
Houston  still  waited.  Four — and  a  scratch  on  the 
door.  It  was  Golemar,  followed  a  moment  later 
by  a  grinning,  twinkling-eyed  Ba'tiste. 

"Bon!  Good!"  he  exclaimed.  "See,  Golemar? 
What  I  say  to  you?  He  wait  up  for  Ba'teese. 
Bon!  Now — alert,  mon  ami!  The  pencil  and  the 
paper!" 

He  slumped  into  a  chair  and  dived  into  a  pocket 
of  his  red  shirt,  to  bring  forth  a  mass  of  scribbled 
sheets,  to  stare  at  them,  striving  studiously  to  make 
out  the  writing. 

"Ba'teese,  he  put  eet  down  by  a  match  in  the 
shelter  of  a  lumber  pile,"  came  at  last.  "Eet  is  all, 
what-you-say,  scramble  up.  But  we  shall  see — ah, 
oui — we  shall  see.  Now,"  he  looked  toward  Hous- 
ton, waiting  anxiously  with  paper  and  pencil,  "we 
shall  put  eet  in  the  list.  So.  One  million  ties, 
seven  by  eight  by  eight  feet,  at  the  one  dollar  and 
the  forty  cents.  Put  that  down." 

"I  have  it.     But  what—" 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  165 

"Wait !  Five  thousan'  -bridge  timber,  ten  by  ten 
by  sixteen  feet,  at  the  three  dollar  and  ninety 
cents." 

"Yes— " 

"Ten  thousand  feet  of  the  four  by  four,  at—" 

"Ba'tiste!"  Houston  had  risen  suddenly. 
"What  have  you  got  there?" 

The  trapper  grinned  and  pulled  at  his  gray- 
splotched  beard. 

"Oh,  ho!  Golemar!  He  wan'  to  know.  Shall 
we  tell  heem,  eh?  Ah.  oui — "  he  shook  his  big 
shoulders  and  spread  his  hands.  "Eet  is — the 
copy  of  the  bid!" 

"The  copy?     The  bid?" 

"From  the  Blackburn  mill.  There  is  no  one 
aroun'.  Ba'teese,  he  go  through  a  window.  Ba'- 
teese,  he  find  heem — in  a  file.  And  he  bring  back 
the  copy." 

"Then—" 

"M'sieu  Houston,  he  too  will  bid.  But  he  will 
make  it  lower.  And  this,"  he  tapped  the  scribbled 
scraps  of  paper,  "is  cheaper  than  any  one  else. 
Eet  is  because  of  the  location.  M'sieu  Houston 
—he  know  what  they  bid.  He  will  make  eet 
cheaper." 

"But  what  with,  Ba'tiste?  We  haven't  a  mill 
to  saw  the  stuff,  in  the  first  place.  This  ram- 
shackle thing  we're  setting  up  now  couldn't  even 
begin  to  turn  out  the  ties  alone.  The  bid  calls  for 
ten  thousand  laid  down  at  Tabernacle,  the  first  of 
June.  We  might  do  that,  but  how  on  earth  would 


166  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

we  ever  keep  up  with  the  rest?  The  boxings,  the 
rough  lumber,  the  two  by  fourteen's  finished,  the 
dropped  sidings  and  groved  roofing,  and  lath  and 
ceiling  and  rough  fencings  and  all  the  rest?  What 
on  earth  will  we  do  it  with?" 

"What  with?"  Ba'tiste  waved  an  arm  gran- 
diloquently. "With  the  future!" 

"It's  taking  the  longest  kind  of  a  chance — " 

"Ah,  old!  But  the  man  who  is  drowning,  he 
will,  what-you-say,  grab  at  a  haystack." 

"True  enough.  Go  ahead.  I'll  mark  our 
figures  down  too,  as  you  read." 

And  together  they  settled  to  the  making  of  a 
bid  that  ran  into  the  millions,  an  overture  for  a  con- 
tract for  which  they  had  neither  mill,  nor  timber, 
nor  flume,  nor  resources  to  complete! 


CHAPTER  XV 

Time  dragged  after  that.  Once  the  bid  was  on 
its  way  to  Chicago,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
wait.  It  was  a  delay  which  lengthened  from  June 
until  July,  thence  into  late  summer  and  early 
autumn,  while  the  hills  turned  brown  with  the 
colorings  of  the  aspens,  while  Mount  Taluchen  and 
its  surrounding  mountains  once  more  became  grim 
and  forbidding  with  the  earljy  fall  of  snow. 

The  time  for  the  opening  of  the  bids  had  passed, 
far  in  the  distance,  but  there  had  come  no  word. 
Ba'tiste,  long  since  taken  into  as  much  of  a  part- 
nership agreement  as  was  possible,  went  day  after 
day  to  the  post  office,  only  to  return  empty-handed, 
while  Houston  watched  with  more  intensity  than 
ever  the  commercial  columns  of  the  lumber 
journals  in  the  fear  that  the  contract,  after  all,  had 
gone  somewhere  else.  But  no  notice  appeared. 
Nothing  but  blankness  as  concerned  the  plans  of 
the  Mountain  Plains  and  Salt  Lake  Railroad. 

Medaine  he  saw  but  seldom, — then  only  to  avoid 
her  as  she  strove  to  avoid  him.  Houston's  work 
was  now  in  the  hills  and  at  the  camp,  doing  exactly 
what  the  Blackburn  mill  was  doing,  storing  up  a 
reasonable  supply  of  timber  and  sawing  at  what 
might  or  might  not  be  the  first  consignment  of 
ties  for  the  fulfillment  of  the  contract.  But  day 


168  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

after  day  he  realized  that  he  was  all  but  beaten. 
His  arm  had  healed  now  and  returned  to  the 
strength  that  had  existed  before  the  fracture.  Far 
greater  in  strength,  in  fact,  for  Houston  had  taken 
his  place  in  the  woods  side  by  side  with  the  few 
lumberjacks  whom  he  could  afford  to  carry  on  his 
pay  roll.  There,  at  least,  he  had  right  of  way. 
He  had  sold  only  stumpage,  which  meant  that  the 
Blackburn  camp  had  the  right  to  take  out  as  much 
timber  as  it  cared  to,  as  long  as  it  was  paid  for  at 
the  insignificant  rate  of  one  dollar  and  fifty  cents 
a  thousand  feet.  Thayer  and  the  men  in  his  em- 
ploy could  not  keep  him  out  of  his  own  woods,  or 
prevent  him  from  cutting  his  own  timber.  But 
thejy  could  prevent  him  from  getting  it  to  the  mill 
by  an  inexpensive  process. 

From  dawn  until  dusk  he  labored,  sometimes 
with  Ba'tiste  singing  lustily  beside  him,  sometimes 
alone.  The  task  was  a  hard  one;  the  snaking  of 
timber  through  the  forest  to  the  high-line  roadway, 
there  to  be  loaded  upon  two-wheeled  carts  and 
dragged,  by  a  slow,  laborious,  costly  process,  to  the 
mill.  For  every  log  that  he  sent  to  the  saw  in  this 
'wise,  he  knew  that  Thayer  was  sending  ten, — and 
at  a  tenth  of  the  cost.  But  Houston  was  fighting 
the  last  fight, — a  fight  that  could  not  end  until 
absolute,  utter  failure  stood  stark  before  him  at 
the  end  of  the  road. 

September  became  October  with  its  rains,  and 
its  last  flash  of  brilliant  coloring  from  the  lower 
hills,  and  then  whiteness.  November  had  arrived, 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  169 

bringing  with  it  the  first  snow  and  turning  the 
whole,  great,  already  desolate  country  into  a  desert 
of  white. 

It  was  cold  now;  the  cook  took  on  a  new  duty 
of  the  maintenance  of  hot  pails  of  bran  mash  and 
salt  water  for  the  relief  of  frozen  hands.  Heavy 
gum-shoes,  worn  over  lighter  footgear  and  reach- 
ing with  felt-padded  thickness  far  toward  the  knee, 
encased  the  feet.  Hands  numbed,  in  spite  of  thick 
mittens;  each  week  saw  a  new  snowfall,  bringing 
with  it  the  consequent  thaws  and  the  hardening  of 
the  surface.  The  snowshoe  rabbit  made  its  appear- 
ance, tracking  the  shadowy,  silent  woods  with 
great,  outlandish  marks.  The  coyotes  howled  o' 
nights ;  now  and  then  Houston,  as  he  worked,  saw 
the  tracks  of  a  bear,  or  the  bloody  imprints  of  a 
mountain  lion,  its  paws  cut  by  the  icy  crust  of  the 
snow  as  it  trailed  the  elk  or  deer.  The  world  was 
a  quiet  thing,  a  white  thing,  a  cold,  unrelenting 
thing,  to  be  fought  only  by  thick  garments  and 
snowshoes.  But  with  it  all,  it  gave  Houston  and 
Ba'tiste  a  new  enthusiasm.  They  at  least  could 
get  their  logs  to  the  mill  now  swiftly  and  with  com- 
parative ease. 

Short,  awkward-appearing  sleds  creaked  and 
sang  along  the  icy,  hard-packed  road  of  snow,  to 
approach  the  piles  of  logs  snaked  out  of  the  timber, 
to  be  loaded  high  beyond  all  seeming  regard  for 
gravitation  or  consideration  for  the  broad-backed, 
patient  horses,  to  be  secured  at  one  end  by  heavy 
chains  leading  to  a  patent  binder  which  cinched 


170  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

them  to  the  sled,  and  started  down  the  precipitous 
road  toward  the  mill.  Once  in  a  while  Houston 
rode  the  sleds,  merely  for  the  thrill  of  it;  for  the 
singing  and  crunching  of  the  logs  against  the  snow, 
the  grinding  of  bark  against  bark,  the  quick  surge 
as  the  horses  struck  a  sharp  decline  and  galloped 
down  it,  the  driver  shouting,  the  logs  kicking  up 
the  snow  behind  the  sle^d  in  a  swirling,  feathery 
wake. 

At  times  he  stayed  at  the  bunk  house  with  the 
lumberjacks,  silent  as  they  were  silent,  or  talking 
of  trivial  things  which  were  mighty  to  them, — the 
quality  of  the  food,  the  depth  of  the  snow,  the  fact 
that  the  little  gray  squirrels  were  more  plentiful 
in  one  part  of  the  woods  than  another,  or  that  they 
chattered  more  in  the  morning  than  in  the  after- 
noon. Hours  he  spent  in  watching  Old  Bill,  a 
lumberjack  who,  in  his  few  moments  of  leisure  be- 
tween the  supper  table  and  bed,  whittled  laboriously 
upon  a  wooden  chain,  which  with  dogged  persist- 
ence he  had  lugged  with  him  for  months.  Or  per- 
haps staring  over  the  shoulder  of  Jade  Hains, 
striving  to  copy  the  picture  of  a  motion-picture 
star  from  a  worn,  dirty,  months-old  magazine;  as 
excited  as  they  over  the  tiny  things  in  life,  as 
eager  to  seek  a  bunk  when  eight  o'clock  came,  as 
grudging  to  hear  the  clatter  of  alarm  clocks  in 
the  black  coldness  before  dawn  and  to  creak  forth 
to  the  watering  and  harnessing  of  the  horses  for 
the  work  of  the  day.  Some  way,  it  all  seemed  to 
be  natural  to  Barry  Houston,  natural  that  he  should 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  171 

accept  this  sort  of  dogged,  humdrum,  eventless  life 
and  strive  to  think  of  nothing  more.  The  other 
existence,  for  him,  had  ended  in  a  blackened  waste ; 
even  the  one  person  in  whom  he  had  trusted,  the 
woman  he  would  have  been  glad  to  marry,  if  that 
could  have  repaid  her  in  any  way  for  what  he 
thought  she  had  done  for  him,  had  proved  trait- 
orous. His  letters,  written  to  her  at  general  de- 
livery, St.  Louis,  had  been  returned,  uncalled  for. 
From  the  moment  that  he  had  received  that  light, 
taunting  note,  he  had  heard  nothing  more.  She 
had  done  her  work;  she  was  gone. 

December  came.  Christmas,  and  with  it  Ba'- 
tiste,  with  flour  in  his  hair  and  beard,  his  red  shirt 
pulled  out  over  his  trousers,  distributing  the  pres- 
ents which  Houston  had  bought  for  the  few  men  in 
his  employ,  January  wore  on,  bringing  with  it 
more  snow.  February  and  then — 

"Eet  is  come!  Eet  is  come!"  Ba'tiste,  wav- 
ing his  arms  wildly,  in  spite  of  the  stuffiness  of  his 
heavy  mackinaw,  and  the  broad  belt  which  sank 
into  layer  after  layer  of  clothing  at  his  waist, 
dame  over  the  brow  of  the  raise  into  camp,  to 
seize  Houston  in  his  arms  and  dance  him  about, 
to  lift  him  and  literally  throw  him  high  upon  his 
chest  as  one  would  toss  a  child,  to  roar  at  Golemar, 
then  to  stand  back,  brandishing  an  opened  letter 
above  his  head.  "Eet  is  cornel  I  have  open  eet 
— I  can  not  wait.  Eet  say  we  shall  have  the  con- 
tract! Ah,  ouil  oui!  oiti!  oui!  We  shall  have  the 
contract!" 


172  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

Houston,  suddenly  awake  to  what  the  message 
meant,  reached  for  the  letter.  It  was  there  in 
black  and  white.  The  bid  had  been  accepted. 
There  need  now  be  but  the  conference  in  Chicago, 
the  posting  of  the  forfeit  money,  and  the  deal  was 
made. 

"Eet  say  five  thousand  dollars  cash,  and  the  rest 
in  a  bond!"  came  enthusiastically  from  Ba'tiste. 
"Eet  is  simple.  You  have  the  mill,  you  have  the 
timber.  Ba'teese,  he  have  the  friend  in  Denver 
who  will  make  the  bond." 

"But  how  about  the  machinery;  we'll  need  a  hun- 
dred-thousand-dollar plant  before  we're  through, 
Ba'tiste." 

"Ah!"  The  old  French-Canadian's  jaw  dropped. 
"Ba'teese,  he  is  like  the  child.  He  have  not  think 
of  that.  He  have  figure  he  can  borrow  ten  thou- 
sand dollar  in  his  own  name.  But  he  have  not 
think  about  the  machinery." 

"But  we  must  think  about  it,  Ba'tiste.  We've 
got  to  get  it.  With  the  equipment  that's  here,  we 
never  could  hope  to  keep  up  with  the  contract. 
And  if  we  can't  do  that,  we  lose  everything. 
Understand  me,  I'm  not  thinking  of  quitting;  I 
merely  want  to  look  over  the  battlefield  first. 
Shall  we  take  the  chance?" 

Big  Ba'tiste  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Ba'teese,  he  always  try  to  break  the  way,"  came 
at  last.  "Ba'teese,  he  have  trouble — but  he  have 
nev'  been  beat.  You  ask  Ba'teese — Ba'teese  say 
go  ahead.  Somehow  we  make  it." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  173 

"Then  to-morrow  morning  we  take  the  train  to 
Denver,  and  from  there  I'll  go  on  to  Boston.  I'll 
raise  the  money  some  way.  I  don't  know  how. 
If  I  don't,  we're  only  beaten  in  the  beginning  in- 
stead of  at  the  end.  We'll  simply  have  to  trust  to 
the  future — on  everything,  Ba'tiste.  There  are  so 
many  things  that  can  whip  us,  that — "  Houston 
laughed  shortly*— "we  might  as  well  be  gamblers 
all  the  way  through.  We'll  never  fulfill  the  con- 
tract, even  with  the  machinery,  unless  we  can  get 
the  use  of  the  lake  and  a  flume  to  the  mill.  We 
may  be  able  to  keep  it  up  for  a  month  or  two,  but 
that  will  be  all.  The  expense  will  eat  us  up.  But 
one  chance  is  no  greater  than  the  other,  and  per- 
sonally, I'm  at  the  point  where  I  don't  care." 

"Om!  Ba'teese,  he  have  nothing.  Ba'teese  he 
only  fight  for  the  excitement.  So,  to-morrow  we 

go!" 

And  on  the  next  day  they  went,  again  to  go  over 
all  the  details  of  their  mad,  foundationless  esca- 
pade with  Chance,  to  talk  it  all  over  in  the  old  smok- 
ing car,  to  weigh  the  balance  against  them  from 
eveiy  angle,  and  to  see  failure  on  every  side.  But 
they  had  become  gamblers  with  Fate;  for  one,  it 
was  his  final  opportunity,  to  take  or  disregard, 
with  a  faint  glimmer  of  success  at  one  end  of  the 
vista,  with  the  wiping  out  of  every  hope  at  the 
other.  They  tried  not  to  look  at  the  gloomy  side, 
but  that  was  impossible.  As  the  train  ground  its 
way  up  the  circuitous  grades,  Houston  felt  that  he 
was  headed  finally  for  the  dissolution.  But  there 


174  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

was  at  least  the  consolation  about  it  that  within  a 
short  time  the  uncertainty  of  his  life  would  be 
ended ;  the  hopes  either  crushed  forever,  or  realized, 
that— 

"Ba'tiste!"  They  were  in  the  snowsheds  at 
Crestline,  and  Houston  had  pointed  excitedly  to- 
ward a  window  of  the  west-bound  train,  just  pul- 
ling past  them  on  the  way  down  the  slope.  A  wo- 
man was  there,  a  woman  who  had  turned  her  head 
sharply,  but  with  not  enough  speed  to  prevent  a 
sight  of  her  by  the  French-Canadian  who  glanced 
quickly  and  gasped: 

"The  Judas!" 

Houston  leaped  from  his  seat  and  ran  to  the 
vestibule  of  the  car,  but  in  vain.  It  was  closed; 
already  the  other  last  coach  of  the  other  train  was 
pulling  past  and  gaining  headway  with  the  easier 
grade.  Wondering,  he  returned  to  his  seat  beside 
his  partner. 

"It  was  she,  Ba'tiste,"  came  with  conviction.  "I 
got  a  good  look  at  her  before  she  noticed  me. 
Then,  when  I  pointed — she  turned  her  head  away." 

"But  Ba'teese,  he  see  her." 

"She's  going  back.  What  do  you  suppose  it 
cah  mean?  Can  she  be — " 

"Ba'teese  catch  the  nex'  train  to  Tabernacle  so 
soon  as  we  have  finish  our  business.  Eet  is  for  no 
good." 

"I  wonder — "  it  was  a  hope,  but  a  faint  one — 
"if  she  could  be  coming  back  to  make  amends, 
Ba'tiste?  That — that  other  thing  seemed  so  un- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT 

like  the  person  who  had  been  so  good  to  me,  so 
apart  from  the  side  of  her  nature  that  I  knew — " 

"She  have  a  had  mouth,"  Ba'tiste  repeated 
grimly.  "She  have  a  bad  eye,  she  have  a  bad 
tongue.  A  woman  with  a  bad  tongue,  she  is  a 
devil.  You — you  no  see  it,  because  she  come  to 
you  with  a  smile,  when  every  one  else,  he  frown. 
You  think  she  is  the  angel,  yes,  oui?  But  she  come 
to  Ba'teese  different.  She  talk  to  you  sof '  and  she 
try  to  turn  you  against  your  frien*.  Yes.  Oui? 
Ne  c'est  pas?  Ba'teese  see  her  with  the  selfish 
mouth.  Peuff!  He  see  her  when  she  look  to  heem 
out  from  the  corner  of  her  eye — so.  Ba'teese  know. 
Ba'teese  come  back  quick,  to  keep  watch!" 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Ba'tiste.  It  won't  do  any 
harm.  If  she's  returned  for  a  good  purpose,  very 
well.  If  riot,  we're  at  least  prepared  for  her." 

With  that  resolution  they  went  on  to  Denver, 
there  to  seek  out  the  few  friends  Ba'tiste  possessed, 
to  argue  one  of  them  into  a  loan  of  ten  thousand 
dollars  on  the  land  and  trustworthy  qualities  which 
formed  the  total  of  Ba'tiste's  resources,  to  gain 
from  the  other  the  necessary  bond  to  cover  the  con- 
tract,— a  contract  which  Barry  Houston  knew  only 
too  well  might  never  be  fulfilled.  But  against 
this  fear  was  the  booming  enthusiasm  of  Ba'tiste 
Renaud : 

"Nev'  min'.  Somehow  we  do  eet.  Ah,  oui! 
Somehow.  If  we  -make  the  failure,  then  it  shall  be 
Ba'teese  who  will  fin'  the  way  to  pay  the  bond. 
Now,  Ba'teese,  he  go  back." 


176  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"Yes,  and  keep  watch  on  that  woman.  She's  out 
here  for  something — I  feel  sure  of  it — something 
that  has  to  do  with  Thayer.  Before  you  go,  how- 
ever, make  the  rounds  of  the  employment  agencies 
and  tell  them  to  send  you  every  man  they  can  spare, 
up  to  a  hundred.  We'll  give  them  work  to  the 
extent  of  five  thousand  dollars.  They  ought  to  be 
able  to  get  enough  timber  down  to  keep  us  going 
for  a  while  anyway — especially  with  the  roads 
iced." 

"Ah.     Old.    It  is  the  three  o'clock.    Bon  voy- 
age, mon  Baree!" 

It  was  the  first  time  Ba'tiste  Renaud  ever  had 
dropped  the  conventional  "M'sieu"  in  addressing 
Houston,  and  Barry  knew,  without  the  telling, 
without  the  glowing  light  in  the  old  man's  eyes, 
that  at  least  a  part  of  the  great  loneliness  in  the 
trapper's  heart  had  departed,  that  he  had  found  a 
place  there  in  a  portion  of  the  aching  spot  left 
void  by  a  shrapnel-shattered  son  to  whom  a  father 
had  called  that  night  in  the  ruined  cathedral, — and 
called  in  vain.  It  caused  a  queer  pang  of  exquisite 
pain  in  Houston's  heart,  a  joy  too  great  to  be  ex- 
pressed by  the  reflexes  of  mere  pleasure.  Long 
after  the  train  had  left  Denver,  he  still  thought  of 
it,  he  still  heard  the  old  man's  words,  he  still  sat 
ouiet  and  peaceful  in  a  new  enthusiasm  of  hope. 
The  world  was  not  so  blank,  after  all.  One  man, 
at  least,  believed  in  him  fully. 

Came  Chicago  and  the  technicalities  of  ironing 
out  the  final  details  of  the  contract.     Then,  dealer 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  177 

in  millions  and  the  possessor  of  nothing,  Houston 
went  onward  toward  Boston. 

And  Ba'tiste  was  not  there  to  boom  enthusiastic- 
ally regarding  the  chances  of  the  future,  to  enlarge 
upon  the  opportunities  which  might  arise  for  the 
fulfillment  of  a  thing  which  seemed  impossible. 

Coldly,  dispassionately,  now  that  it  was  done, 
that  the  word  of  the  Empire  Lake  Mill  and  Lum- 
ber Company  had  been  given  to  deliver  the  mater- 
ials for  the  making  of  a  great  railroad,  had  guar- 
anteed its  resources  and  furnished  the  necessary 
bond  for  the  fulfillment  of  a  promise,  Barry  Hous- 
ton could  not  help  but  feel  that  it  all  had  been  rash, 
to  say  the  least.  Where  was  the  machinery  to  be 
obtained?  Where  the  money  to  keep  things  going? 
True,  there  would  be  spot  cash  awaiting  the  de- 
livery of  every  installment  of  the  huge  order, 
enough,  in  fact,  to  furnish  the  necessary  running 
expenses  of  a  mill  under  ordinary  circumstances. 
But  the  circumstances  which  surrounded  the  work- 
ings of  the  Empire  Lake  project  were  far  from 
ordinary.  No  easy  skid  ways  to  a  lake,  no  flume, 
no  serials;  there  was  nothing  to  cut  expenses.  Un- 
less a  miracle  should  happen,  and  Houston  re- 
flected that  miracles  were  few  and  far  between, 
that  timber  must  be  brought  to  the  mill  by  a 
system  that  would  be  disastrous  as  far  as  costs  were 
concerned.  Yet,  the  contract  had  been  made! 

He  wandered  the  aisle  of  the  sleeper,  fidgeting 
from  one  end  to  the  other,  as  neither  magazines,  nor 
the  spinning  scenery  without  held  a  counter-attrac- 


178  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

tion  for  his  gloomy  thoughts.  When  night  at  last 
came,  he  entered  the  smoking  compartment  and 
slumped  into  a  seat  in  a  far  corner,  smoking  in  a 
detached  manner,  often  pulling  on  his  cigar  long 
after  lengthy  minutes  of  reflection  had  allowed  its 
ashes  to  cool. 

About  him  the  usual  conversation  raged,  the 
settling  of  a  nation's  problems,  the  discussion  of 
crime  waves,  Bolshevism  and  the  whatnot  that  goes 
with  an  hour  of  smoking  on  a  tiresome  journey. 
From  Washington  and  governmental  affairs,  it 
veered  to  the  West  and  dry  farming,  thence  to  the 
cattle  business;  to  anecdotes,  and  finally  to  ghost 
stories.  And  then,  with  a  sudden  interest,  Hous- 
ton forgot  his  own  problems  to  listen  attentively, 
tensely,  almost  fearfully.  A  man  whom  he  never 
before  had  seen,  and  whom  he  probably  never  would 
see  again,  was  talking, — about  something  which 
might  be  as  remote  to  Houston  as  the  poles.  Yet 
it  held  him,  it  fascinated,  it  gripped  him! 

"Speaking  of  gruesome  things,"  the  talker  had 
said,  "reminds  me.  I'm  a  doctor — not  quite  full 
fledged,  I'll  admit,  but  with  the  right  to  put  M.  D. 
after  my  name.  Spent  a  couple  of  years  as  an 
interne  in  Bellstrand  Hospital  in  New  York.  Big 
place.  Any  of  you  ever  been  there?" 

No  one  had.     The  young  doctor  went  on. 

"Quite  a  place  for  experiments.  They've  got  a 
big  room  on  the  fifth  floor  where  somebody  is  al- 
ways dissecting,  or  carrying  out  some  kind  of  in- 
vestigations into  this  bodily  thing  we  call  a  home. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  179 

My  work  led  me  past  there  a  good  deal,  and  I'd 
gotten  so  I  hardly  noticed  it.  But  one  Sunday 
night,  I  guess  it  was  along  toward  midnight,  I  saw 
something  that  brought  me  up  short.  I  happened 
to  look  in  and  saw  a  man  in  there,  murdering  an- 
other one  with  a  wooden  mallet." 

"Murdering  him?"  The  statement  had  caused  a 
rise  from  the  rest  of  the  auditors.  The  doctor 
laughed. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  used  too  sentimental  a  phrase. 
I  should  have  said,  acting  out  a  murder.  You 
can't  very  well  murder  a  dead  man.  The  fellow 
he  was  killing  already  was  a  corpse. 

"You  mean—" 

"Just  what  I'm  saying.  There  were  two  or 
three  assistants.  Pretty  big  doctors,  I  learned 
later,  all  of  them  from  Boston.  They  had  taken 
a  cadaver  from  the  refrigerator  and  stood  it  in  a 
certain  position.  Then  the  one  man  had  struck  it 
on  the  head  with  the  mallet  with  all  the  force  he 
could  summon.  Of  course  it  knocked  the  corpse 
down — I'm  telling  you,  it  was  gruesome,  even  to  an 
interne !  The  last  I  saw  of  them,  the  doctors  were 
working  with  their  microscopes — evidently  to  see 
what  effect  the  blow  had  produced." 

"What  was  the  idea?" 

"Never  found  out.  They're  pretty  close- 
mouthed  about  that  sort  of  thing.  You  see,  op- 
posite sides  in  a  trial  are  always  carrying  out  ex- 
periments and  trying  their  level  best  to  keep  the 
other  fellow  from  knowing  what's  going  on.  I 


180  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

found  out  later  that  the  door  was  supposed  to  have 
been  locked.  I  passed  through  about  ten  min- 
utes later  and  saw  them  working  on  another  human 
body — evidently  one  of  a  number  that  they  had 
been  trying  the  tests  on.  About  that  time  some 
one  heard  me  and  came  out  like  a  bullet.  The  next 
thing  I  knew,  everything  was  closed.  How  long 
the  experiments  had  been  going  on,  I  couldn't  say. 
I  do  know,  however,  that  they  didn't  leave  there 
until  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"You — you  don't  know  who  the  men  were?" 
Houston,  forcing  himself  to  be  casual,  had  asked 
the  question.  The  young  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"Xo — except  that  they  were  from  Boston.  At 
least,  the  doctors  were.  One  of  the  nurses  knew 
them.  I  suppose  the  other  man  was  a  district 
attorney — they  usually  are  around  somewhere  dur- 
ing an  experiment." 

"You  never  learned  with  what  murder  case  it 
was  connected?" 

"No — the  fact  is,  it  passed  pretty  much  out  of  my 
mind,  as  far  as  the  details  were  concerned.  Al- 
though I'll  never  forget  the  picture." 

"Pardon  me  for  asking  questions.  I — I — just 
happen  to  come  from  Boston  and  was  trying  to  re- 
call such  a  case.  You  don't  remember  what  time 
of  the  year  it  was,  or  how  long  ago?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  It  was  in  the  summer,  along  about 
two  or  two  and  a  half  years  ago." 

Houston  slumped  back  into  his  corner.  Ten 
minutes  later,  he  found  an  opportunity  to  exchange 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  181 

cards  with  the  young  physician  and  sought  his 
berth.  To  himself,  he  could  give  no  reason  for  es- 
tablishing the  identity  of  the  smoking-compart- 
ment  informant.  He  had  acted  from  some  sort 
of  subconscious  compulsion,  without  reasoning, 
without  knowing  why  he  had  catalogued  the  in- 
formation or  of  what  possible  use  it  could  be  to  him. 
But  once  in  his  berth,  the  picture  continued  to  rise 
before  him:  of  a  big  room  in  a  hospital,  of  doctors 
gathered  about,  and  of  a  man  "killing"  another 
with  a  mallet.  Had  it  been  Worthington? 
Worthington,  the  tired-eyed,  determined,  over- 
zealous  district  attorney,  who,  day  after  day,  had 
struggled  and  fought  to  send  him  to  the  peniten- 
tiary for  life?  Had  it  been  Worthington,  striving 
to  reproduce  the  murder  of  Tom  Langdon  as  he 
evidently  had  reconstructed  it,  experimenting  with 
his  experts  in  the  safety  of  a  different  city,  for 
points  of  evidence  that  would  clinch  the  case 
against  the  accused  man  beyond  all  shadow  of  a 
doubt?  Instinctively  Houston  felt  that  he  just 
had  heard  an  unwritten,  unmentioned  phase  of  his 
own  murder  case.  Yet — if  that  had  been  Worth- 
ington, if  those  experts  had  found  evidence  against 
him,  if  the  theories  of  the  district  attorney  had  been 
verified  on  that  gruesome  night  in  the  "dead  ward" 
of  Bellstrand  Hospital — 

Why  had  this  damning  evidence  been  allowed  to 
sink  into  oblivion?  Why  had  it  not  been  used 
against  him? 


CHAPTER  XVI 

It  was  a  problem  which  Barry  Houston,  in  spite 
of  wakefulness,  failed  to  solve.  Next  morning, 
eager  for  a  repetition  of  the  recital,  in  the  hope  of 
some  forgotten  detail,  some  clue  which  might  lead 
him  to  an  absolute  decision,  he  sought  the  young 
doctor,  only  to  find  that  he  had  left  the  train  at 
dawn.  A  doorway  of  the  past  had  been  opened  to 
Houston,  only  to  be  closed  again  before  he  could 
clearly  discern  beyond.  He  went  on  to  Boston, 
still  struggling  to  reconstruct  it  all,  striving  to  fig- 
ure what  connection  it  might  have  had,  but  in  vain. 
And  with  his  departure  from  the  train,  new 
thoughts,  new  problems,  arose  to  take  the  place  of 
memories.  His  purposes  now  were  of  the  future, 
not  of  the  past. 

And  naturally,  he  turned  first  to  the  office  of  his 
father's  attorney, — the  bleak  place  where  he  had 
conferred  so  many  times  in  the  black  days.  Old 
Judge  Mason,  accustomed  to  seeing  Barry  in  times 
of  stress,  tried  his  best  to  be  jovial. 

"Well,  boy,  what  is  it  this  time?" 

"Money."  Houston  came  directly  to  the  point. 
"I've  come  back  to  Boston  to  find  out  if  any  one 
will  trust  me." 

"With  or  without  security." 

"With  it— the  best   in   the  world."     Thert  he 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  183 

brought  forward  a  copy  of  the  contract.  Mason 
studied  it  at  length,  then,  with  a  slow  gesture, 
raised  his  glasses  to  a  resting  place  on  his  forehead. 

"I — I  don't  know,  boy,"  he  said  at  last.  "It's  a 
rather  hard  problem  to  crack.  I  wish  there  was 
some  one  in  the  family  we  could  go  to  for  the 
money." 

"But  there  isn't." 

"No.  Your  uncle  Walt  might  have  it.  But 
I'm  afraid  that  he  wouldn't  feel  like  lending  it  to 
you.  He  still  believes — well,  you  know  how  fa- 
thers are  about  their  boys.  He's  forgotten  most 
of  Tom's  bad  points  by  now." 

"We'll  drop  him  from  the  list.  How  about  the 
bankers." 

"We'll  have  to  see.  I'm  a  little  afraid  there.  I 
know  you'll  pardon  me  for  saying  it,  Barry,  but 
they  like  to  have  a  man  come  to  them  with  clean 
hands.  Not  that  you  haven't  got  them,"  he  inter- 
jected, "but — well,  you  know  bankers.  What's 
the  money  for;  running  expenses?" 

"No.  Machinery.  The  other  mill  burned 
down,  you  know —  and  as  usual,  without  insurance. 
We  have  a  makeshift  thing  set  up  there  now — but 
it's  nothing  to  what  will  be  needed.  I've  got  to 
have  a  good,  smooth-working  plant — otherwise  I 
won't  be  able  to  live  up  to  specifications." 

"You're  not,"  and  the  old  lawyer  smiled  quiz- 
zically, "going  to  favor  your  dearly  beloved  friend 
with  the  order,  are  you?" 

"Who?" 


184  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"Worthington." 

"The  district  attorney?" 

"That  was.  Plutocrat  now,  and  member  of 
society,  you  know.  He  came  into  his  father's 
money,  just  after  he  went  out  of  office,  and  bought 
into  the  East  Coast  Machinery  Company  when  it 
was  on  its  last  legs.  His  money  was  like  new 
blood.  They've  got  a  good  big  plant.  He's  pres- 
ident," again  the  smile,  "and  I  know  he'd  be  glad 
to  have  your  order." 

Houston  continued  the  sarcasm. 

"I'd  be  overjoyed  to  give  it  to  him.  In  fact,  I 
think  I'd  refuse  to  buy  any  machinery  if  I  couldn't 
get  it  from  such  a  dear  friend  as  Worthington  was. 
It  wasn't  his  fault  that  I  wasn't  sent  to  the  pen- 
itentiary." 

"No,  that's  right,  boy."  Old  Lawyer  Mason 
was  quietly  reminiscent.  "He  tried  his  best.  It 
seemed  to  me  in  those  days  he  was  more  of  a  per- 
secutor than  prosecutor." 

"Let's  forget  it."  Houston  laughed  uneasily. 
"Now,  to  go  back  to  the  bankers — " 

"There  isn't  much  for  us  to  do  but  to  try  them, 
one  after  another.  I  guess  we  might  as  well  start 
now  as  any  time." 

Late  that  afternoon  they  were  again  in  the  office, 
the  features  of  Mason  wrinkled  with  thought,  those 
of  Barry  Houston  plainly  discouraged.  They  had 
failed.  The  refusals  had  been  courteous,  fraught 
with  many  apologies  for  a  tight  market,  and  effu- 
sive regrets  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  loan 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  185 

money  on  such  a  gilt-edged  proposition  as  the  con- 
tract seemed  to  hold  forth,  but —  There  had 
always  been  that  one  word,  that  stumbling-block 
against  which  they  had  run  time  after  time,  shielded 
and  padded  by  courtesy,  but  present  nevertheless. 
Nor  were  Houston  and  Mason  unaware  of  the  real 
fact  which  lay  behind  it  all;  that  the  bankers  did 
not  care  to  trust  their  money  in  the  hands  of  a  man 
who  had  been  accused  of  murder  and  who  had  es- 
caped the  penalty  of  such  a  charge  by  a  margin, 
which  to  Boston,  at  least,  had  seemed  exceedingly 
slight.  One  after  another,  there  in  the  office, 
Mason  went  over  the  list  of  his  business  acquaint- 
ances, seeking  for  some  name  that  might  mean 
magic  to  them.  But  no  such  inspiration  came. 

"Drop  back  to-morrow,  boy,"  he  said  at  last. 
"I'll  think  over  the  thing  to-night,  and  I  may  be 
able  to  get  a  bright  idea.  It's  going  to  be  tough 
sledding — too  tough,  I'm  afraid.  If  only  we  didn't 
have  to  buck  up  against  that  trial,  and  the  ideas 
people  seem  to  have  gotten  of  it,  we'd  be  all  right. 
But—" 

There  it  was  again,  that  one  word,  that  immu- 
table obstacle  which  seemed  to  arise  always.  Hous- 
ton reached  for  his  hat. 

"I'm  going  to  keep  on  trying,  anyway,  Mr. 
Mason.  I'll  be  back  to-morrow.  I'm  going  to 
get  that  money  if  I  have  to  make  a  canvass  of  Bos- 
ton, if  I  have  to  go  out  and  sell  shares  at  a  dollar 
apiece  and  if  I  go  broke  paying  dividends.  I've 
made  my  promise  to  go  through — and  I'm  going  1" 


186  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"Good.     I'll  be  looking  for  you." 

But  half  an  hour  later,  following  a  wandering, 
aimless  journey  through  the  crooked  streets,  Barry 
Houston  suddenly  straightened  with  an  inspiration. 
He  whirled,  he  dived  for  a  cigar  store  and  for  a 
telephone. 

"Hello!"  he  called,  after  the  long  wait  for  con- 
nections. "Mr.  Mason?  Don't  look  for  me  to- 
morrow— I  believe  I'll  not  be  there." 

"But  you  haven't  given  it  up?" 

"Given  up?"  Houston  laughed  with  sudden  en- 
thusiasm. "No — I've  just  started.  Put  the  date 
off  a  day  or  two  until  I  can  try  something  that's 
buzzing  around  in  my  head.  It's  a  wild  idea — 
but  it  may  work.  If  it  doesn't,  I'll  see  you  Thurs- 
day." 

Then  he  turned  from  the  telephone  and  toward 
the  railroad  station. 

"One,  to  New  York,"  he  ordered  hurriedly 
through  the  ticket  window.  "I've  got  time  to  make 
that  seven-forty,  if  you  rush  it." 

And  the  next  morning,  Barry  Houston  was  in 
New  York,  swirling  along  Seventh  Avenue  toward 
Bellstrand  Hospital.  There  he  sought  the  executive 
offices  and  told  his  story.  Five  minutes  later  he 
was  looking  at  the  books  of  the  institution,  search- 
ing, searching, — at  last  to  stifle  a  cry  of  excitement 
and  bend  closer  to  a  closely  written  page. 

"August  second,"  he  read.  "Kilbane  Worthing- 
ton,  district  attorney,  Boston,  Mass.  Ace  by  Drs. 
Horton,  Mayer  and  Brensteam.  Investigations 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  187 

into  effect  of  blows  on  skull.  Eight  cadavers." 
With  fingers  that  were  almost  frenzied,  Hous- 
ton copied  the  notation,  closed  the  book,  and  hurried 
again  for  a  taxicab.  It  yet  was  only  nine  o'clock. 
It  the  traffic  were  not  too  thick,  if  the  driver  were 
skilful- 
He  raced  through  the  gate  at  Grand  Central  just 
as  it  was  closing.  He  made  the  train  in  unison 
with  the  last  drawling  cry  of  the  conductor.  Then 
for  hours,  in  the  Pullman  chair  car,  he  fidgeted, 
counting  the  telegraph  posts,  checking  off  the  sta- 
tions as  they  flipped  past  the  windows,  through  a 
day  of  eagerness,  of  excited,  racking  anticipation. 
It  was  night  when  he  reached  Boston,  but  Houston 
did  not  hesitate.  A  glance  at  a  telephone  book, 
another  rocking  ride  in  a  taxicab,  and  Barry  stood 
on  the  veranda  of  a  large  house,  awaiting  the 
answer  to  his  ring  at  the  bell.  Finally  it  came. 

"Mr.  Worthington,"  he  demanded.  The  butler 
arched  his  eyebrows. 

"Sorry,  but  Mr.  Worthington  has  left  orders  not 
to  be—' 

"Tell  him  that  it  is  a  matter  of  urgent  business. 
That  it  is  something  of  the  utmost  importance  to 
him." 

A  wait.     The  butler  returned. 
"Sorry,  sir.    But  Mr.  Worthington  is  just  ready 
to  retire." 

"You  tell  Mr.  Worthington,"  answered  Houston 
in  a  crisp  voice,  "that  he  either  will  see  me  or  re- 
gret it.  Tell  him  that  I  am  very  sorry,  but  that 


188  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

just  now,  I  am  forced  to  use  his  own  methods — 
and  that  if  he  doesn't  see  me  within  five  minutes, 
there  will  be  something  in  the  morning  papers  that 
will  be,  to  say  the  least,  extremely  distasteful  to 
him." 

"The  name,  please?" 

"It  doesn't  matter." 

"Are  you  from  a  newspaper?" 

"I'm  not  saying.  Whether  I  go  to  one  directly 
from  here,  depends  entirely  upon  Mr.  Worthing- 
ton.  Will  you  please  take  my  message?" 

"I'm  afraid—" 

"Take  my  message!" 

"Directly,  sir!" 

Another  wait.     Then: 

"Mr.  Worthington  will  see  you  in  the  library, 


sir." 


"Thanks."  Houston  almost  bounded  into  the 
hall.  A  moment  later,  in  the  dimness  of  the 
heavily  furnished,  somewhat  mysterious  appearing 
library,  Barry  Houston  again  faced  the  man  whom, 
at  one  time,  he  had  hoped  never  again  to  see.  Kil- 
bane  Worthington  was  seated  at  the  large  table, 
much  in  the  manner  which  he  had  affected  in  court, 
elbows  on  the  surface,  chin  cupped  in  his  thin, 
nervous  hands.  The  light  was  not  good  for  rec- 
osmizing  faces;  without  realizing  it,  the  former 
district  attorney  had  placed  himself  at  a  disadvant- 
age. Squinting,  he  sought  to  make  out  the  features 
of  the  man  who  had  hurried  into  the  room,  and 
failing,  rose. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  189 

"Well,"  he  asked  somewhat  brusquely,  "may  I 
inquire — " 

"Certainly.  My  name's  Houston." 
"Houston — Houston — it  seems  to  me — " 
"Maybe  your  memory  needs  refreshing.  Such 
little  things  as  I  figured  in  probably  slipped  your 
mind  the  minute  you  were  through  with  them.  To 
be  explicit,  my  name  is  Barry  Houston,  son  of  the 
late  William  K.  Houston.  You  and  I  met — in 
the  courtroom.  You  once  did  me  the  very  high 
honor  to  accuse  me  of  murder  and  then  tried  your 
level  best  to  send  me  to  the  penitentiary  for  life 
when  you  knew,  absolutely  and  thoroughly,  that  I 
was  an  innocent  man!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

The  former  district  attorney  started  slightly. 
Then,  coming  still  closer,  he  peered  into  the  tense, 
angry  features  of  Barry  Houston. 

"A  bit  melodramatic,  aren't  you?"  he  asked  in  a 
sneering  tene. 

"Perhaps  so.  But  then  murder  is  always  melo- 
dramatic." 

"Murder?     You  don't  intend—" 

"No.  I  simply  referred  to  the  past.  I  should 
have  said  'reference  to  murder.'  I  hope  you  will 
pardon  me  if  any  inelegance  of  language  should 
offend  you." 

"Sarcastic,  aren't  you?" 

"I  have  a  right  to  be.  Knowing  what  I  know 
— I  should  use  more  than  sarcasm." 

"If  I'm  not  mistaken,  you  have.  The  butler 
spoke  of  some  threat." 

"Hardly  a  threat,  Mr.  Worthington."  Hous- 
ton was  speaking  coldly,  incisively.  "Merely  what 
I  have  heard  you  often  call  in  court  a  statement  of 
fact.  In  case  it  wasn't  repeated  to  you  correctly, 
I'll  bore  you  with  it  again.  I  said  that  if  you 
didn't  see  me  immediately,  there  would  be  some- 
thing extremely  distasteful  to  you  in  the  morning 
papers." 

"Well?    I've  seen  you.     Now — " 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  191 

"Wait  just  a  moment,  Mr.  Worthington.  I 
thought  it  was  only  civil  lawyers  who  indulged  in 
technicalities.  I  didn't  know  that  criminal,"  and 
he  put  emphasis  on  the  word,  then  repeated  it, 
"that  criminal  lawyers  had  the  habit  also." 

6 'If  you'll  cease  this  insulting — " 

"Oh,  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  that.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I've  only  begun  to  insult  you.  That  is — 
if  you  call  this  sort  of  a  thing  an  insult.  To  get 
at  the  point  of  the  matter,  Mr.  Worthington,  I 
want  to  be  fair  with  you.  I've  come  here  to  ask 
something — I'll  admit  that — but  it  is  something 
that  should  benefit  you  in  a  number  of  ways.  But 
we'll  speak  of  that  later.  The  main  point  is  this : 
I  am  thinking  very  seriously  of  suing  the  city  of 
Boston  for  a  million  dollars." 

"Well?  What's  that  to  me?"  Worthington 
sighed,  with  a  bit  of  relief,  Houston  thought,  and 
walked  back  to  the  table  for  a  cigarette.  "I  haven't 
anything  to  do  with  the  city.  Go  as  far  as  you 
like.  I'm  out  of  politics;  in  case  you  don't  know, 
I'm  in  business  for  myself  and  haven't  the  least 
interest  in  what  the  city  does,  or  what  any  one  does 
to  it." 

"Even  though  you  should  happen  to  be  the  bone 
of  contention — and  the  butt  of  what  may  be  a  good 
deal  of  unpleasant  newspaper  notoriety?" 

"You're  talking  blackmail!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Blackmail  is  something 
by  which  one  extorts  money.  I'm  here  to  try  to 
give  you  money — or  at  least  the  promise  of  it — 


192  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

and  at  the  same  time  allow  you  to  make  up  for 
something  that  should,  whether  it  does  or  not, 
weigh  rather  heavily  on  your  conscience." 

"If  you'll  come  to  the  point." 

"Exactly.    Do  you  remember  my  case?" 

"In  a  way.     I  had  a  good  many  of  them." 

"Which,  I  hope,  you  did  not  handle  in  the  same 
way  that  you  did  mine.  But  to  recall  it  all  to 
your  recollection,  I  was  accused  of  having  killed 
my  own  cousin,  Tom  Langdon,  with  a  mallet." 

"Yes — I  remember  now.  3Tou  two  had  some 
kind  of  a  drunken  fight." 

"And  you,  at  the  time,  if  I  remember  correctly, 
had  a  fight  of  your  own.  It  was  nearing  election 
time." 

"Correct.  I  remember  now."  Then,  with  a 
little  smile,  "Quite  luckily,  I  was  beaten." 

"I  agree  with  you  there.  But  to  return  to  the 
original  statement.  Am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong, 
when  I  say  that  you  were  striving  very  hard  for 
a  record  that  would  aid  you  in  the  election?" 

"Every  official  tries  to  make  the  best  possible 
record.  Especially  at  election  time." 

"No  matter  whom  it  injures." 

"I  didn't  say  that." 

"But  I  did — and  I  repeat  it.  No  matter  whom 
it  injures!  Now,  to  be  plain  and  frank  and 
brutal  with  you  to-night  as  you  were  with  me  in 
the  courtroom,  Mr.  Worthington,  I  have  pretty 
convincing  evidence  that  you  knew  I  was  innocent. 
Further,  that  you  knew  it  almost  at  the  beginning 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  193 

of  the  trial.  But  that  in  spite  of  this  knowledge, 
you  continued  to  persecute  me — notice,  I  don't  say 
prosecute — to  persecute  me  in  a  hope  of  gaining  a 
conviction,  simply  that  you  might  go  before  the 
voters  and  point  to  me  in  prison  as  a  recommenda- 
tion of  your  efficiency  as  a  district  attorney." 

"Oh  I"  Worthington  threw  away  his  cigarette 
with  an  angry  gesture,  and  came  forward.  "You 
fellows  are  all  the  same.  You're  always  squeal- 
ing about  your  innocence.  I  never  saw  a  man  yet 
who  wasn't  innocent  in  one  way  or  another.  Even 
when  they  confess,  they've  got  some  kind  of  an 
alibi  for  their  act.  They  didn't  know  the  gun  was 
loaded,  or  the  other  fellow  hit  them  first  or— 

"In  my  case  I  have  no  alibis.  And  this  isn't 
simply  my  own  statement.  I  have  sufficient  wit- 


nesses." 


"Then  why  didn't  you  produce  them  at  the  trial?" 

"I  couldn't.     You  had  them." 

"I?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  mind  giving  you  the  names. 
One  of  them  was  Doctor  Horton.  Another  was 
Doctor  Mayer.  A  third  was  Doctor  Brensteam, 
all  physicians  of  the  highest  reputation.  I  would 
like,  Mr.  Worthington,  to  know  why  you  did  not 
make  use  of  them  in  the  trial  instead  of  the  expert 
Hamon,  and  that  other  one,  Jaggerston,  who,  as 
every  one  knows,  are  professional  expert  witnesses, 
ready  at  all  times  to  testify  upon  anything  from 
handwriting  to  the  velocity  of  a  rifle  bullet,  provid- 
ing they  are  sufficiently  paid." 


194  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"Why?  Simply  because  I  figured  they  would 
make  the  best  witnesses." 

"It  couldn't  have  been,"  and  Houston's  voice 
was  more  coldly  caustic  than  ever,  "that  it  was  be- 
cause they  would  be  willing  to  perjure  themselves, 
while  the  real  doctors  wouldn't?" 

"Of  course  not!  This  whole  thing  is  silly.  Be- 
sides, I'm  out  of  it  entirely.  I'm — " 

"Mr.  Worthington,"  and  Houston's  tone 
changed.  "Your  manner  and  your  words  indicate 
very  plainly  that  you're  not  out  of  it — that  you 
merely  wish  you  were.  Isn't  that  the  truth? 
Don't  you?" 

"Well,"  and  the  man  lit  a  fresh  cigarette,  "I 
feel  that  way  about  every  murder  case." 

"But  especially  about  this  one.  You're  not 
naturally  a  persecutor.  You  don't  naturally  want 
to  railroad  men  to  the  penitentiary.  And  I  be- 
lieve that,  as  a  general  thing,  you  didn't  do  it. 
You  tried  it  in  my  case;  election  was  coming  on, 
you  had  just  run  up  against  two  or  three  acquittals, 
and  you  had  made  up  your  mind  that  in  my  case 
you  were  going  to  run  the  gauntlet  to  get  a  con- 
viction. I  don't  believe  you  wanted  to  send  me 
up  simply  for  the  joy  of  seeing  an  innocent  man 
confined  in  prison.  You  wanted  a  conviction — 
wasn't  that  it?" 

"Every  prosecutor  works  for  that." 

"Xot  when  he  knows  the  man  is  innocent,  Mr. 
Worthington.  You  knew  that — I  have  proof.  I 
have  evidence  that  you  found  it  out  almost  at  the 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  195 

beginning  of  my  trial — August  second,  to  be  exact 
— and  that  you  used  this  information  to  your  own 
ends.  In  other  words,  it  told  you  what  the  defense 
would  testify;  and  you  built  up,  with  your  profes- 
sional experts,  a  wall  to  combat  it.  Now,  isn't  that 
the  truth?" 

"Why — '  The  former  district  attorney  took 
more  time  than  usual  to  knock  the  ashes  from  his 
cigarette,  then  suddenly  changed  the  subject. 
"You  spoke  of  a  suit  you  might  bring  when  you 
came  inhere?" 

"Yes.  Against  the  city.  I  have  a  perfect  one. 
I  was  persecuted  when  the  official  in  charge  of  the 
case  knew  that  I  was  not  guilty.  To  that  end  I  can 
call  the  three  doctors  I've  mentioned  and  put  them 
on  the  stand  and  ask  them  why  they  did  not  testify 
in  the  case.  I  also  can  call  the  officials  of  Bell- 
strand  Hospital  in  New  York  where  you  conducted 
certain  experiments  on  cadavers  on  the  night  of 
August  second;  also  a  doctor  who  saw  you  working 
in  there  and  who  watched  you  personally  strike  the 
blows  with  a  mallet;  further,  I  can  produce  the 
records  of  the  hospital  which  state  that  you  were 
there,  give  the  names  of  the  entire  party,  together 
with  the  number  of  corpses  experimented  upon. 
Is  that  sufficient  evidence  that  I  know  what  I'm 
talking  about?" 

.Worthington  examined  his  cigarette  again. 

"I  suppose  it's  on  the  books  down  there.  But 
there's  nothing  to  state  of  what  the  experiments 
consisted." 


196  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"I  have  just  told  you  that  I  have  an  eye-witness. 
Further,  there  are  the  three  doctors." 

"Have  you  seen  them?" 

Houston  thought  quickly.  It  was  his  only 
chance. 

"I  know  exactly  what  their  testimony  will  be." 

"You've  made  arrangements  for  your  suit  then." 
Worthington's  color  had  changed.  Houston  no- 
ticed that  the  hand  which  held  the  cigarette  trembled 
slightly. 

"No,  I  haven't.  I'm  not  here  to  browbeat  you, 
Mr.  Worthington,  or  lie  to  you.  It  came  to  me 
simply  as  a  ruse  to  get  in  to  see  you.  But  the  more  I 
think  of  it,  the  more  I  know  that  I  could  go  through 
with  it  and  possibly  win  it.  I  might  get  my  million. 
I  might  not.  I  don't  want  money  gained  in  that 
way.  The  taxpayers  would  have  to  foot  the  bill, 
not  yourself." 

"Oh,  I  guess  I'd  pay  enough,"  Worthington  had 
assumed  an  entirely  different  attitude  now.  "It 
would  hurt  me  worse  in  business  than  it  would  if 
I  were  still  in  office.  Whether  it's  true  or  not." 

"You  know  in  your  heart  that  there's  no  doubt 
of  that." 

Worthington  did  not  answer.  Houston  waited 
a  moment,  then  went  on. 

"But  personally,  I  don't  want  to  file  the  suit.  I 
don't  want  any  money — that  way.  I  don't  want 
any  bribes,  or  exculpations,  or  statements  from  you 
that  you  know  me  to  be  innocent.  Some  might  be- 
lieve it;  others  would  only  ask  how  much  I  paid 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  197 

to  have  that  statement  given  out.  The  damage 
has  been  done  and  is  next  to  irreparable.  You 
could  have  cleared  me  easily  enough  by  dropping 
the  case,  or  making  your  investigations  before  ever 
an  indictment  was  issued.  You  didn't,  and  I  re- 
main guilty  in  the  minds  of  most  of  Boston,  in 
spite  of  what  the  jury  said.  A  man  is  not  guilty 
until  convicted— under  the  law.  He  is  guilty  as 
soon  as  accused,  with  the  lay  mind.  So  you  can't 
help  me  much  there;  my  only  chance  for  freedom 
lies  in  finding  the  man  who  actually  committed  that 
murder.  But  that's  something  else.  We  won't 
talk  about  it.  You  owe  me  something.  And  I'm 
here  to-night  to  ask  you  for  it." 

"I  thought  you  said  you  didn't  want  any  bribes." 

"I  don't.  May  I  ask  you  what  your  margin  of 
profit  is  at  your  machinery  company?" 

"My  margin  of  profit?  What's  that?  Well, 
I  suppose  it  runs  around  twelve  per  cent." 

"Then  will  you  please  allow  me  to  give  you 
twelve  thousand  dollars  in  profits?  I'm  in  the 
lumber  business.  I  have  a  contract  that  runs  into 
the  millions;  surely  that  is  good  enough  security 
to  a  man" — he  couldn't  resist  the  temptation — "who 
knows  my  absolute  innocence.  It  isn't  good  enough 
for  the  bankers,  who  still  believe  me  guilty,  so  I've 
come  directly  to  you.  I  need  one  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars'  worth  of  lumber-mill  machinery,  blade 
saws,  crosscuts,  j  ackers,  planers,  kickers,  chain  belt- 
ing, leather  belting,  and  everything  else  that  goes 
to  make  up  a  first-class  plant.  I  can  pay  for  it 


198  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

— in  installments.  I  guarantee  to  give  you  every 
cent  above  my  current  running  expenses  until  the 
bill  is  disposed  of.  My  contract  with  the  Moun- 
tain, Plains  and  Salt  Lake  Railroad  is  my  bond. 
I  don't  even  ask  a  discount,  or  for  you  to  lose  any 
of  your  profits.  I  don't  even  ask  any  public  state- 
ment by  you  regarding  my  innocence.  All  I  want 
is  to  have  you  do  what  you  would  do  to  any  reput- 
able business  man  who  came  to  you  with  a  contract 
running  into  the  millions  of  dollars — to  give  me 
credit  for  that  machinery.  It's  a  fair  proposition. 
Come  in  with  me  on  it,  and  we'll  forget  the  rest. 
Stay  out— and  I  fight!" 

For  a  long  moment,  Kilbane  Worthington  paced 
the  floor,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  his  rather 
thin  head  low  upon  his  chest.  Then,  at  last,  he 
looked  up. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  be  in  town?" 

"Until  this  matter's  settled." 

"Where  are  you  staying?" 

"The  Touraine." 

"Very  well.  I'll  have  a  machine  there  to  pick 
you  up  at  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morning  and  take 
you  to  my  office.  In  the  meanwhile — I'll  think 
it  over." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

It  was  a  grinning  Barry  Houston  who  leaped 
from  the  train  at  Tabernacle  a  week  later  and 
ran  open-armed  through  the  snow  toward  the  wait- 
ing Ba'tiste. 

"You  got  my  telegram?"  He  asked  it  almost 
breathlessly. 

"Ah,  oui!  oui,  GUI,  oui!  Sacre,  and  you  are  the 
wizard!" 

"Hardly  that."  They  were  climbing  into  the 
bobsled.  "I  just  had  enough  sense  to  put  two  and 
two  together.  On  the  train  to  Boston  I  got  a  tip 
about  my  case,  something  that  led  me  to  believe 
that  the  district  attorney  knew  all  the  time  that  I 
was  innocent.  He  had  conducted  experiments  at 
the  Bellstrand  Hospital  of  which  nothing  had  been 
said  in  the  trial.  Three  famous  doctors  had  been 
with  him.  As  soon  as  I  saw  their  names,  I  in- 
stinctively knew  that  if  the  experiments  had  turned 
out  the  way  the  district  attorney  had  wanted  them, 
he  would  have  used  them  in-  the  trial  against  me, 
but  that  their  silence  meant  the  testimony  was 
favorable  to  me." 

"Bow/"     Ba'tiste  grinned  happily.     "And  he?" 

"It  just  happened  that  he  is  now  in  the  mill 
machinery  business.  I,"  and  Houston  smiled  with 


200  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

the  memory  of  his  victory,  "I  convinced  him  that 
he  should  give  me  credit." 

"Eet  is  good.  In  the  woods,  there  are  many 
men.  The  log,  he  is  pile  all  about  the  mill.  Three 
thousand  tie,  already  they  are  stack  up." 

"And  the  woman — she  has  caused  no  trouble?" 

"No.  Peuff!  I  have  no  see  her.  Mebbe  so, 
eet  was  a  mistake." 

"Maybe,  Ba'tiste,  but  I  was  sure  I  recognized 
her.  The  Blackburn  crowd  hasn't  given  up  the 
ghost  yet?" 

"Ah,  no.  But  eet  will.  Still  they  think  that 
we  cannot  fill  the  contract.  They  think  that  after 
the  first  shipment  or  so,  then  we  will  have  to  quit." 

"They  may  be  right,  Ba'tiste.  It  would  require 
nearly  two  thousand  men  to  keep  that  mill  supplied 
with  logs,  once  we  get  into  production,  outside  of 
the  regular  mill  force,  under  conditions  such  as  they 
are  now.  It  would  be  ruinous.  We've  got  to  find 
some  other  way,  Ba'tiste,  of  getting  our  product  to 
the  mill.  That's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"Ba'teese,  he  have  think  of  a  way — that  he  have 
keep  secret.  Ba'teese,  he  have  a,  what-you-say, 
hump." 

"Hunch,  you  mean?" 

"Ah,  out.  Eet  is  this.  We  will  not  bring  the 
log  to  the  mill.  We  will  bring  the  mill  to  the  log. 
We  have  to  build  the  new  plant,  yes,  oui?  Then, 
bon,  we  shall  build  eet  in  the  forest,  where  there  is 
the  lumber." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  201 

"Quite  so.  And  then  who  will  build  a  railroad 
switch  that  can  negotiate  the  hills  to  the  mill?" 

"Ah!"  Ba'tiste  clapped  a  hand  to  his  forehead. 
"Veritas!  I  am  the  prize,  what-you-say,  squash! 
Ba'teese,  he  never  think  of  eet!"  A  moment  he 
sat  glum,  only  to  surge  with  another  idea.  "But, 
now,  Ba'teese  have  eet!  He  shall  go  to  Medaine! 
He  shall  tell  her  to  write  to  the  district  attorney 
of  Boston— that  he  will  tell  her—" 

"It  was  part  of  my  agreement,  Ba'tiste,  that  he 
be  forced  to  make  no  statements  regarding  my  in- 


nocence." 


"Ah,  but—" 

"It  was  either  that,  or  lose  the  machinery.  He's 
in  business.  He's  afraid  of  notoriety.  The  plain, 
cold  truth  is  that  he  tried  to  railroad  me,  and  only 
my  knowledge  of  that  fact  led  him  into  doing  a 
decent  and  honorable  thing.  But  I  sealed  any 
chance  of  his  moral  aid  when  I  made  my  bargain. 
It  was  my  only  chance." 

Slowly  Ba'tiste  nodded  and  slapped  the  reins  on 
the  back  of  the  horse. 

"Ba'teese  will  not  see  Medaine,"  came  at  last, 
and  they  went  on. 

Again  the  waiting  game,  but  a  busy  game  how- 
ever, one  which  kept  the  ice  roads  polished  and 
slippery ;  which  resulted,  day  by  day,  in  a  constantly 
growing  mountain  of  logs  about  the  diminutive 
sawmill.  One  in  which  plans  were  drawn,  and 
shell-like  buildings  of  mere  slats  and  slab  sidings 
erected,  while  heavy,  stone  foundations  were  laid 


202  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

in  the  firm,  rocky  soil  to  support  the  machinery, 
when  it  arrived.  A  game  in  which  Houston  hurried 
from  the  forests  to  the  mill  and  back  again,  now 
riding  the  log  sheds  as  a  matter  of  swifter  locomo- 
tion, instead  of  for  the  thrill,  as  he  once  had  done. 
Another  month  went  by,  to  bring  with  it  the  bill 
of  lading  which  told  that  the  saws,  the  beltings, 
the  planers  and  edgers  and  trimmers,  and  the  half 
hundred  other  items  of  machinery  were  at  last  on 
their  way,  a  month  of  activities  and — of  hopes. 

For  to  Ba'tiste  Renaud  and  Barry  Houston 
there  yet  remained  one  faint  chance.  The  Black- 
burn crowd  had  taken  on  a  gamble,  one  which,  at  the 
time,  had  seemed  safe  enough;  the  investment  of 
thousands  of  dollars  for  a  plant  which  they  had 
believed  firmly  would  be  free  of  competition.  That 
plant  could  not  hope  for  sufficient  business  to  keep 
it  alive,  with  the  railroad  contract  gone,  and  the 
bigger  mill  of  Houston  and  Renaud  in  successful 
operation.  There  would  come  the  time  when  they 
must  forfeit  that  lease  and  contract  through  non- 
payment, or  agree  to  re-lease  them  to  the  original 
owner.  But  would  that  time  arrive  soon  enough? 
It  was  a  grim  possibility, — a  gambling  wager  that 
held  forth  hope,  and  at  the  same  time  threatened 
them  with  extinction.  For  the  same  thing  applied 
to  Houston  and  Ba'tiste  that  applied  to  Blackburn 
and  Thayer.  If  they  could  not  make  good  on  their 
contract,  the  other  mill  was  ever  ready  to  step  in. 

"Eet  all  depen',"  said  Ba'tiste  more  than  once 
during  the  snowy,  frost-caked  days  in  which  they 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  203 

watched  every  freight  train  that  pulled,  white- 
coated,  over  the  range  into  Tabernacle.  "Eet  all 
depen'  on  the  future.  Mebbe  so,  we  make  eet. 
Mebbe  so,  we  do  not.  But  we  gamble,  eh,  mon 
Baree?" 

"With  our  last  cent,"  came  the  answer  of  the 
other  man,  and  in  the  voice  was  grimness  and  en- 
thusiasm. It  was  a  game  of  life  or  extinction  now. 

March,  and  a  few  warm  days,  which  melted  the 
snows  only  that  they  might  crust  again.  Back  and 
forth  traveled  the  bobsled  to  Tabernacle,  only  to 
meet  with  disappointment. 

"IVe  wired  the  agent  at  Denver  three  times 
about  that  stuff,"  came  the  announcement  of  the 
combined  telegrapher  and  general  supervisor  of 
freight  at  the  little  station.  "He's  told  me  that 
he'd  let  me  know  as  soon  as  it  got  in.  But  noth- 
ing's come  yet." 

A  week  more,  and  another  week  after  that,  in 
which  spring  taunted  the  hills,  causing  the  streams 
to  run  bank-full  with  the  melting  waters  of  the 
snow,  in  which  a  lone  robin  made  his  appearance 
about  the  camp, — only  to  fade  as  quickly  as  he  had 
come.  For  winter,  tenacious,  grim,  hateful  winter, 
had  returned  for  a  last  fling,  a  final  outburst  of 
frigid  viciousness  that  was  destined  to  wrap  the 
whole  range  country  in  a  grip  of  terror. 

They  tried  the  bobsled,  Ba'tiste  and  Houston, 
only  to  give  it  up.  All  night  had  the  snow  fallen, 
in  a  thick,  curtain-like  shield  which  blotted  out  even 
the  silhouettes  of  the  heaviest  pines  at  the  brow 


204  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

of  the  hill,-  which  piled  high  upon  the  ridges,  and 
with  great  sweeps  of  the  wind  drifted  every  cut  of 
the  road  to  almost  unfathomable  depths.  The 
horses  floundered  and  plowed  about  in  vain  efforts 
at  locomotion,  at  last  to  plunge  in  the  terror  of  a 
bottomless  road.  They  whinnied  and  snorted,  as 
though  in  appeal  to  the  men  on  the  sled  behind, — 
a  sled  that  worked  on  its  runners  no  longer,  but 
that  sunk  with  every  fresh  drift  to  the  main-boards 
themselves.  Wadded  with  clothing,  shouting  in  a 
mixture  of  French  and  English  and  his  own 
peculiar  form  of  slang,  Ba'tiste  tried  in  vain  to 
force  the  laboring  animals  onward.  But  they  only 
churned  uselessly  in  the  drift;  their  hoofs  could 
find  no  footing,  save  the  yielding  masses  of  snow. 
Puffing,  as  though  the  exertion  had  been  his  own, 
the  trapper  turned  and  stared  down  at  his  com- 
panion. 

"Eet  is  no  use,"  came  finally.  "The  horse, 
he  can  not  pull.  We  must  make  the  trip  on  the 
snowshoe." 

They  turned  back  for  the  bunk  house,  to  emerge 
a  few  moments  later, — bent,  padded  forms,  fight- 
ing clumsily  against  the  sweep  of  the  storm. 
Ghosts  they  became  almost  immediately,  snow- 
covered  things  that  hardly  could  be  discerned  a  few 
feet  away,  one  hand  of  each  holding  tight  to  the 
stout  cord  which  led  from  waist-belt  to  waist-belt, 
their  only  insurance  against  being  parted  from  each 
other  in  the  blinding  swirl  of  winter. 

Hours,  stopping  at  short  intervals  to  seek  for 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  205 

Some  landmark — for  the  road  long  ago  had  become 
obliterated — at  last  to  see  faintly  before  them  the 
little  box-car  station  house,  and  to  hurry  toward 
it  in  a  fear  that  neither  of  them  dared  to  express 
to  the  other.  Snow  in  the  mountains  is  not  a 
gentle  thing,  nor  one  that  comes  by  fits  and  gusts. 
The  blizzard  does  not  sweep  away  its  vengeful  en- 
thusiasm in  a  day  or  a  night.  It  comes  and  it 
stays — departing  for  a  time,  it  seems — that  it  may 
gather  new  strength  and  fury  for  an  even  fiercer 
attack.  And  the  features  of  the  agent,  as  he  stared 
up  from  the  rattling  telegraph  key,  were  not  con- 
ducive to  relief. 

"Your  stuff's  on  the  way,  if  that's  any  news  to 
you,"  came  with  a  worried  laugh.  "It  left  Den- 
ver on  Number  312  at  five  o'clock  this  morning 
behind  Number  Eight.  That's  no  sign  that  it's 
going  to  get  here.  Eight  isn't  past  Tollifer  yet." 

"Not  past  Tollifer?"  Houston  stared  anxiously. 
"Why,  it  should  be  at  the  top  of  the  range  by  now. 
It  hasn't  even  begun  to  climb." 

"Good  reason.  They're  getting  this  over  there 
too." 

"The  snow?" 

"Worse  than  here,  if  anything.  Denver  re- 
ported ten  inches  at  eleven  o'clock — and  it's  fifteen 
miles  from  the  range.  There  was  three  inches 
when  the  train  started.  Lord  knows  where  that 
freight  is — I  can't  get  any  word  from  it." 

"But—" 

"Gone  out  again!"     The  telegrapher  hammered 


206  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

disgustedly  on  the  key.     "The  darned  line  grounds 
on  me  about  every  five  minutes.     I — " 

"Do  you  hear  anything  from  Crestline — about 
conditions  up  there?" 

"Bad.  It's  even  drifting  in  the  snowsheds. 
They've  got  two  plows  working  in  'em  keeping  'em 
open,  and  another  down  at  Crystal  Lake.  If 
things  let  up,  they're  all  right.  If  not — they'll  run 
out  of  coal  by  to-morrow  morning  and  be  worse 
than  useless.  There's  only  about  a  hundred  tons 
at  Crestline — and  it  takes  fuel  to  feed  them  babies. 
But  so  far—" 

"Yes?" 

"They're  keeping  things  halfway  open.  Wait 
a  minute — "  he  bent  over  the  key  again — "it's 
opened  up.  Number  Eight's  left  Tollifer.  The 
freight's  behind  it,  and  three  more  following  that. 
I  guess  they're  going  to  try  to  run  them  through 
in  a  bunch.  They'll  be  all  right — if  they  can  only 
get  past  Crestline.  But  if  they  don't — " 

He  rattled  and  banged  at  the  key  for  a  long 
moment,  cursing  softly.  Only  the  dead  "cluck"  of 
a  grounded  line  answered  him.  Houston  turned 
to  Ba'tiste. 

"It  looks  bad." 

"Oui!  But  eet  depen' — on  the  storm.  Eet 
come  this  way,  near'  ev'  spring.  Las'  year  the 
road  tie  up — and  the  year  before.  Oh,"  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  "that  is  what  one  get  for 
living  in  a  country  where  the  railroad  eet  chase 
eetself  all  over  the  mountain  before  eet  get  here." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  207 

"There  wouldn't  be  any  chance  at  the  tunnel 
either,  would  there?  They  haven't  cut  through 
yet." 

"No — and  they  won'  finish  until  June.  That  is 
when  they  figure — " 

"That's  a  long  way  off." 

"Too  long,"  agreed  Ba'tiste,  and  turned  again 
toward  the  telegrapher,  once  more  alert  over  a 
speaking  key.  But  before  it  could  carry  anything 
but  a  fragmentary  message,  life  was  gone  again, 
and  the  operator  turned  to  the  snow-caked  window, 
with  its  dreary  exterior  of  whirling  snow  that 
seemed  to  come  ever  faster. 

"Things  are  going  to  get  bad  in  this  country  if 
this  keeps  up,"  came  at  last.  "There  ain't  any  too 
great  a  stock  of  food." 

"How  about  hay  for  the  cattle?" 

"All  right.  I  guess.  If  the  ranchers  can  get  to 
it.  But  that's  the  trouble  about  this  snow.  It 
ain't  like  the  usual  spring  blizzard.  It's  dry  as  a 
January  fall,  and  it's  sure  drifting.  Keeps  up  for 
four  or  five  days ;  they'll  be  lucky  to  find  the  hay- 
stacks." 

For  a  long  time  then,  the  three  stood  looking  out 
the  window,  striving — merely  for  the  sake  of  pass- 
ing time — to  identify  the  almost  hidden  buildings 
of  the  little  town,  scarcely  more  than  a  hundred 
yards  away.  At  last  the  wire  opened  again,  and 
the  operator  went  once  more  to  his  desk.  Ba'tiste 
and  Houston  waited  for  him  to  give  some  report. 
But  there  was  none.  At  last: 


208  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"What  is  it?"  Houston  was  at  his  side.  The 
operator  looked  up. 

"Denver  asking  Marionville  if  it  can  put  its 
snowplow  through  and  try  to  buck  the  drifts  from 
this  side.  No  answer  yet." 

A  long  wait.     Then: 

"Well,  that's  done.  Only  got  one  Mallett  engine 
at  Marionville.  Other  two  are  in  the  shop.  One 
engine  couldn't — " 

He  stopped.  He  bent  over  the  key.  His  face 
went  white — tense. 

"God!" 

"What's  wrong?"  The  two  men  were  close  be- 
side him  now. 

"Number  one-eleven's  kicked  over  the  hill!" 

"One-eleven — kicked  over?" 

"Yes.  Snowplow.  They're  wiring  Denver, 
from  Crestline.  The  second  plow's  up  there  in  the 
snowshed  with  the  crew.  One  of  'em's  dead.  The 
other's — wait  a  minute,  I  have  to  piece  it  together." 

A  silence,  except  for  the  rattling  of  the  key, 
broken,  jagged,  a  clattering  voice  of  the  distance, 
faint  in  the  roar  and  whine  of  the  storm,  yet  pene- 
trating as  it  carried  the  news  of  a  far-away  world, 
— a  world  where  the  three  waiting  men  knew  that 
all  had  turned  to  a  white  hell  of  wintry  fury;  where 
the  grim,  forbidding  mountains  were  now  the  abid- 
ing place  of  the  snow-ledge  and  the  avalanche; 
where  even  steel  and  the  highest  product  of  inven- 
tion counted  for  nothing  against  the  blast  of  the 
wind  and  the  swirl  of  the  tempest.  Then  finally, 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  209 

as  from  far  away,  a  strained  voice  came,  the  oper- 
ator's : 

"Ice  had  gotten  packed  on  the  rails  already. 
One-eleven  tried  to  keep  on  without  a  pick  and 
shovel  gang.  Got  derailed  on  a  curve  just  below 
Crestline  and  went  over.  One-twelve's  crew  got 
the  men  up.  The  plow's  smashed  to  nothing. 
Fifty-three  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  junk  now. 
Wait  a  minute — here's  Denver." 

Again  one  of  those  agonizing  waits,  racking  to 
the  two  men  whose  future  depended  largely  upon 
the  happenings  atop  the  range.  Far  on  the  other 
side,  fighting  slowly  upward,  was  a  freight  train  con- 
taining flatcar  after  flatcar  loaded  with  the  neces- 
sary materials  of  a  large  sawmill.  True,  June 
was  yet  two  months  away.  But  months  are  short 
when  there  is  work  to  do,  when  machinery  must  be 
installed,  and  when  contracts  are  waiting.  Every 
day,  every  hour,  every  minute  counted  now.  And 
as  if  in  answer  to  their  thoughts,  the  operator 
straightened,  with  a  little  gesture  of  hopelessness. 

"Guess  it's  all  off,"  came  at  last.  "The  general 
superintendent  in  Denver's  on  the  wire.  Says  to 
back  up  everthing  to  Tollifer,  including  the  plows, 
and  give  up  the  ghost." 

"Give  it  up?"  Houston  stared  blankly  at  the 
telegrapher.  "But  that's  not  railroading!" 

"It  is  when  you're  with  a  concern  that's  all  but 
broke,"  answered  the  operator.  "It's  cheaper  for 
this  old  wooden-axle  outfit  to  quit  than  to  go  on 
fighting — " 


210  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"That  mean  six  weeks  eef  this  storm  keep  up 
two  days  longer!"  Ba'tiste  broke  in  excitedly. 
"By  to-morrow  morning,  ever'  snowshed,  he  will 
be  bank-full  of  snow.  The  track,  he  will  be 
four  inches  in  ice.  Six  week — this  country,  he 
can  not  stand  it!  Tell  him  so  on  the  telegraph! 
Tell  him  the  cattle,  he  will  starve!  Peuff!  No 
longer  do  I  think  of  our  machinery!  Eef  it  is 
los' — we  are  los'.  But  let  eet  go.  Say  to  heem 
nothing  of  that.  Say  to  heem  that  there  are  the 
cattle  that  will  starve,  that  in  the  stores  there  is 
not  enough  provision.  That — " 

"I  know.     I'll  call  Denver.     But  I  don't  know 
what  chance  there  is — the  road's  been  waiting  for  a 
chance  to  go  into  bankruptcy,  anyway — since  this 
new  Carrow  Point  deal  is  about  through.     They 
haven't  got  any  money — you  know  that,  Ba'tiste. 
It's  cheaper  for  them  to  shut  down  for  six  weeks 
than  to  try  to  keep  running.     That  fifty  thousand 
they  lost  on  that  snowplow  just  about  put  the  crimp 
in  'em.     It  might  cost  a  couple  of  hundred  thou- 
sand more  to  keep  the  road  open.     What's  the  re- 
sult?    It's  easier  to  quit.     But  I'll  try  'em- 
He  turned  to  the  key  and  hammered  doggedly. 
Only   soggy   deadness   answered.     He   tested  his 
plugs  and  tried  again.     In  vain.     An  hour  later, 
he  still  was  there,  fighting  for  the  impossible,  striv- 
ing to  gain  an  answer  from  vacancy,  struggling  to 
instil  life  into  a  thing  deadened  by  ice,  and  drifts, 
and  wind,  and  broken,  sagging  telegraph  poles. 
The  line  was  gone! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Until  dusk  they  remained  in  the  boxlike  station, 
hoping  against  hope.  But  the  whine  and  snarl  of 
the  wind  were  the  only  sounds  that  came  to  them, 
the  steady  banking  of  the  snow  against  the  windows 
the  only  evidence  of  life.  The  telegraph  line, 
somewhere  between  Tabernacle  and  the  country 
which  lay  over  the  bleak,  now  deadly  range,  was 
a  shattered  thing,  with  poles  buried  in  drifts,  with 
loose  strands  of  wire  swinging  in  the  gusts  of  the 
blizzard,  with  ice  coated  upon  the  insulations,  and 
repair — until  the  sun  should  come  and  the  snows 
melt — an  almost  impossible  task.- 

"It'd  take  a  guy  with  a  diving  suit  to  find  some 
of  them  wires,  I  guess,"  the  operator  hazarded,  as 
he  finally  ceased  his  efforts  and  reached  for  his 
coat  and  hat  and  snowshoes.  "There  ain't  no  use 
staying  here.  You  fellows  are  going  to  sleep  in 
town  to-night,  ain't  you?" 

There  was  little  else  to  do.  They  fought  their 
way  to  the  rambling  boarding  house,  there  to  join 
the  loafing  group  in  what  passed  for  a  lobby  and 
to  watch  with  them  the  lingering  death  of  day  in  a 
shroud  of  white.  Night  brought  no  cessation  of 
the  wind,  no  lessening  of  the  banks  of  snow  which 
now  were  drifting  high  against  the  first-story  win- 
dows; the  door  was  only  kept  in  working  order 


212  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

through  constant  sallies  of  the  bent  old  boarding- 
house  keeper,  with  his  snow  shovel. 

Windows  banged  and  rattled,  with  a  muffled, 
eerie  sound;  snow  sifted  through  the  tiniest  cracks, 
spraying  upon  those  who  sat  near  them.  The  old 
cannon-ball  stove,  crammed  with  coal,  reached  the 
point  where  dull  red  spots  enlivened  its  bulging 
belly;  yet  the  big  room  was  cold  with  non-detec- 
table drafts,  the  men  shivered  in  spite  of  their 
heavy  clothing,  and  the  region  outside  the  immedi- 
ate radius  of  the  heater  was  barn-like  with  frigidity. 
Midnight  came,  and  the  group  about  the  stove 
slept  in  their  chairs,  rather  than  undergo  the  dis- 
comfort and  coldness  of  bed. 

Morning  brought  no  relief.  The  storm  was 
worse,  if  anything,  and  the  boarding-house  keeper 
faced  drifts  waist  high  at  the  doorway  with  his  first 
shoveling  expedition  of  the  day.  The  telegrapher, 
at  the  frost-caked  window,  rubbed  a  spot  with  his 
hand  and  stared  into  the  dimness  of  the  flying  snow, 
toward  his  station. 

"Guess  I'll  have  t'  call  for  volunteers  if  I  get  in 
there  to-day.  We'll  have  to  tunnel." 

Ba'tiste  and  Houston  joined  him.  The  box  car 
that  served  as  a  station  house — always  an  object 
of  the  heaviest  drifts — was  buried!  The  big 
French-Canadian  pulled  at  his  beard. 

"Peuff!  Eet  is  like  the  ground  hog,"  he  an- 
nounced. "Eet  is  underground  already." 

"Yeh.  But  I've  got  to  get  in  there.  The  wire 
might  be  working." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  213 

"So?  We  will  help,  Baree  and  Ba'teese.  Come 
— we  get  the  shovels." 

Even  that  was  work.  The  town  simply  had 
ceased  to  be;  the  stores  were  closed,  solitude  was 
everywhere.  They  forced  a  window  and  climbed 
into  the  little  general  merchandise  establishment, 
simply  because  it  was  easier  than  striving  to  get 
in  through  the  door.  Then,  armed  with  their 
shovels,  they  began  the  work  of  tunneling  to  the 
station.  Two  hours  later,  the  agent  once  more  at 
bis  dead  key,  Ba'tiste  turned  to  Houston. 

"Eet  is  the  no  use  here,"  he  announced.  "We 
must  get  to  camp  and  assemble  the  men  that  are 
strong  and  willing  to  help.  Then — " 

"Yes?" 

"Then,  eet  will  be  the  battle  to  help  those  who  are 
not  fortunate.  There  is  death  in  this  storm." 

Again  with  their  waist-belt  guide  lines,  they 
started  forth,  to  bend  against  the  storm  in  a 
struggle  that  was  to  last  for  hours;  to  lose  their 
trail,  to  find  it  again,  through  the  straggling  poles 
chat  in  the  old  days  had  carried  telephone  wires, 
ind  at  last  to  reach  the  squat,  snowed-in  buildings 
)f  camp.  There,  Ba'tiste  assembled  the  workmen 
n  the  bunk  house. 

"There  are  greater  things  than  this  now,"  he  an- 
lounced.  "We  want  the  strong  men — who  will  go 
back  with  us  to  Tabernacle,  and  who  will  be  willing 
to  take  the  risk  to  help  the  countryside.  Ah,  oui, 
?et  is  the  danger  that  is  ahead.  How  many  of  you 
rill  go?" 


214  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

One  after  another  they  reached  for  their  snow- 
shoes,  silent  men  who  acted,  rather  than  spoke.  A 
few  were  left  behind,  to  care  for  the  camp  in  case 
of  emergencies,  to  keep  the  roofs  as  free  from  snow 
as  possible  and  to  avoid  cave-ins.  The  rest  filed 
outside,  one  by  one,  awkwardly  testing  the  bindings 
of  their  snowshoes,  and  awaiting  the  command. 
At  the  doorway,  Ba'tiste,  his  big  hands  fumbling, 
caught  the  paws  of  Golemar,  his  wolf-dog,  and 
raised  the  great,  shaggy  creature  against  his 
breast. 

"No,"  he  said  in  kindly,  indulgent  fashion.  "Eet 
is  not  for  Golemar  to  go  with  us.  The  drift,  they 
are  deep.  There  is  no  crust  on  the  snow.  Gole- 
mar, he  would  sink  above  his  head.  Then  blooey! 
There  would  be  no  Golemar!" 

Guide  lines  were  affixed.  Once  more,  huddled, 
clumsy  figures  of  white,  one  following  the  other, 
they  made  the  gruelling  trip  back  to  Tabernacle 
and  the  duties  which  they  knew  lay  before  them. 
For  already  the  reports  were  beginning  to  come  in, 
brought  by  storm-weakened,  blizzard-battered  men, 
of  houses  where  the  roofs  had  crashed  beneath  the 
weight  of  snow,  of  lost  ranchmen,  of  bawling  cattle, 
drifting  before  the  storm, — to  death.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  a  two- weeks'  siege  of  a  white  inferno. 

Little  time  did  Barry  Houston  have  for  thought 
in  those  weeks.  There  were  too  many  other  things 
to  crowd  upon  him;  too  many  cold,  horrible  hours 
in  blinding  snow,  or  in  the  faint  glare  of  a  ruddy 
sun  which  only  broke  through  the  clouds  that  it 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  215 

might  jeer  at  the  stricken  country  beneath  it,  then 
fade  again  in  the  whipping  gusts  of  wind  and  its 
attendant  clouds,  giving  way  once  more  to  the  surg- 
ing sweep  of  white  and  the  howl  of  a  freshened 
blizzard. 

Telegraph  poles  reared  only  their  cross-arms 
above  the  mammoth  drifts.  Haystacks  became 
buried,  lost  things.  The  trees  of  the  forest,  liter- 
ally harnessed  with  snow,  dropped  their  branches 
like  tired  arms  too  weary  to  longer  bear  their  bur- 
dens. The  whole  world,  it  seemed,  was  one  great, 
bleak  thing  of  dreary  white, — a  desert  in  which  there 
was  life  only  that  there  might  be  death,  where  the 
battle  for  existence  continued  only  as  a  matter  of 
instinct. 

And  through — or  rather  over — this  bleak  desert 
went  the  men  of  the  West  Country,  silent,  frost- 
burned  men,  their  lips  cracked  from  the  cut  of 
wind,  their  eyes  blood-red  with  inflammation, 
struggling  here  and  there  with  a  pack  of  food  upon 
their  back  that  they  might  reach  some  desolate  home 
where  there  were  women  and  children;  or  stopping 
to  pull  and  tug  at  a  snow-trapped  steer  and  by 
main  effort,  drag  him  into  a  barren  spot  where 
the  sweep  of  the  gale  had  kept  the  ground  fairly 
clear  of  snow;  at  times  also,  they  halted  to  dig 
into  a  haystack,  and  through  long  hours  scattered 
the  welcome  food  about  for  the  bawling  cattle; 
or  gathered  wood,  where  such  a  thing  was  possible, 
and  lighting  great  fires,  left  them,  that  they  might 
melt  the  snows  about  a  spot  near  a  supply  of  feed, 


216  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

where  the  famished  cattle  could  gather  and  await 
the  next  trip  of  the  rescuers,  bearing  them  susten- 
ance. 

Oftimes  they  stopped  in  vain — the  beast  which 
they  sought  to  succor  was  beyond  aid — and  a  re- 
volver shot  sounded,  muffled  in  the  thickness  of  the 
storm.  Then,  with  knives  and  axes,  the  attack 
came,  and  struggling  forms  bore  to  a  ranch  house 
the  smoking  portions  of  a  newly  butchered'  beef; 
food  at  least  for  one  family  until  the  relief  of  sun 
and  warmth  would  come.  It  was  a  never-ending 
agony  of  long  hours  and  muscle-straining  work. 
But  the  men  who  partook — were  men. 

And  side  by  side  with  the  others,  with  giant  Ba'- 
tiste,  with  the  silent  woodsmen,  with  the  angular, 
wiry  ranchmen,  was  Barry  Houston.  His  muscles 
ached.  His  head  was  ablaze  with  the  eye-strain 
of  constant  white;  his  body  numbed  with  cold  from 
the  time  that  he  left  the  old  cannon-ball  stove  of 
the  boarding  house  in  the  early  morning  until  he 
returned  to  it  at  night.  Long  ago  had  he  lost  hope, 
— so  far  as  personal  aims  and  desires  were  con- 
cerned. The  Crestline  road  was  tied  up;  it  had 
quit  completely;  Barry  Houston  knew  that  the 
fury  of  the  storm  in  this  basin  countiy  below  the 
hills  was  as  nothing  compared  to  the  terror  of  those 
crag  tops  where  altitude  added  to  the  frigidity,  and 
where  from  mountain  peak  to  mountain  peak  the 
blizzard  leaped  with  ever-increasing  ferocity.  Far 
out  on  the  level  stretches  leading  up  to  the  plains 
of  Wyoming,  other  men  were  working,  struggling 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  217 

doggedly  from  telegraph  pole  to  telegraph  pole,  in 
an  effort  to  repair  the  lines  so  that  connection 
might  be  made  to  Rawlins,  and  thence  to  Cheyenne 
and  Denver, — to  apprise  the  world  that  a  great  sec- 
tion of  the  country  had  been  cut  off  from  aid,  that 
women  and  children  were  suffering  from  lack  of 
food,  that  every  day  brought  the  news  of  a  black 
splotch  in  the  snow, — the  form  of  a  man,  arms  out- 
stretched, face  buried  in  the  drift,  who  had  fought 
and  lost.  But  so  far,  there  had  been  only  failure. 
It  was  a  struggle  that  made  men  grim  and  dogged ; 
Barry  Houston  no  less  than  "the  rest.  He  had 
ceased  to  think  of  the  simpler  things  of  life,  of  the 
ordinary  problems,  the  usual  worries  or  likes  and 
dislikes.  His  path  led  once  by  the  home  of  Me- 
daine  Robinette,  and  he  clambered  toward  the  little 
house  with  little  more  of  feeling  than  of  approach- 
ing that  of  the  most  unfamiliar  ranchman. 

Smoke  was  coming  from  the  chimney.  There 
were  the  marks  of  snowshoes.  But  they  might 
mean  nothing  in  the  battle  for  existence.  Houston 
scrambled  up  to  the  veranda  and  banged  on  the 
door.  A  moment  more,  and  he  faced  Medaine 
Robinette. 

"Just  wanted  to  see  if  you're  all  right,"  came 
almost  curtly. 

"Yes— thank  you." 

"Need  any  food?" 

"I  have  plenty." 

"Anybody  sick?" 

"No.    Lost    Wing   has    found   wood.    We're 


218  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

keeping  warm.  Tell  me—  '  and  there  was  the 
politeness  of  emergency  in  her  tones — "is  there  any, 
need  for  women  in  Tabernacle?  I  am  willing  to 
go  if—" 

"Not  yet.  Besides,  a  woman  couldn't  get  in 
there  alone." 

"I  could.  I'm  strong  enough.  Besides,  I've 
been  out — I  went  to  the  Hurd  Ranch  yesterday. 
Mrs.  Kurd's  sick — Lost  Wing  brought  me  the 
word." 

"Then  keep  on  with  that.  There's  nothing  in 
Tabernacle — and  no  place  for  any  one  who  isn't 
destitute.  Stay  here.  Have  you  food  enough  for 
Hurd's?" 

"Yes.     That  is—" 

"I'll  leave  my  pack.  Take  that  over  as  you  need 
it.  There's  enough  for  a  week  there.  If  things 
don't  let  up  by  that  time,  I'll  be  by  again." 

"Thank  you." 

Then  the  door  was  closed,  and  Houston  went  his 
way  again,  back  toTabernacle  and  a  fresh  supply 
for  his  pack — hardly  realizing  the  fact  that  he  had 
talked  to  the  woman  he  could  not  help  wishing  for 
— the  woman  he  would  have  liked  to  have  loved. 
The  world  was  almost  too  gray,  too  grim,  too  hor- 
rible for  Houston  even  to  remember  that  there  was 
an  estrangement  between  them.  Dully,  his  intel- 
lect numbed  as  his  body  was  numbed,  he  went  bacl 
to  his  tasks, — tasks  that  were  seemingly  endless. 

Day  after  day,  the  struggle  remained  the  same, 
the  wind,  the  snow,  the  drifts,  the  white  fleece  fly- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  219 

ing  on  the  breast  of  the  gale  even  when  there  were 
no  storm  clouds  above,  blotting  out  the  light  of  the 
sun  and  causing  the  great  ball  to  be  only  a  red, 
ugly,  menacing  thing  in  a  field  of  dismal  gray. 
Night  after  night  the  drifts  swept,  changing,  deep- 
ening in  spots  where  the  ground  had  been  clear  be- 
fore, smoothing  over  the  hummocks,  weaving  across 
the  country  like  the  vagaries  of  shifting  sands  be- 
fore they  finally  packed  into  hard,  compressed 
mounds,  to  form  bulwarks  for  newer  drifts  when 
the  next  storm  came.  Day  after  day, — and  then 
quiet,  for  forty-eight  hours. 

It  caused  men  to  shout, — men  who  had  cursed 
the  sun  in  the  blazing  noonday  hours  of  summer, 
but  men  who  now  extended  their  arms  to  it,  who 
slapped  one  another  on  the  back,  who  watched  the 
snow  with  blood-red  eyes  for  the  first  sign  of  a 
melting  particle,  and  who  became  hysterically  ju- 
bilant when  they  saw  it.  Forty-eight  hours! 
Deeper  and  deeper  went  the  imprints  of  milder 
weather  upon  the  high-piled  serrations  of  white, 
at  last  to  cease.  The  sun  had  faded  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  second  day.  The  thaw  stopped.  The 
snowshoes  soon  carried  a  new  crunching  sound  that 
gradually  became  softer,  more  muffled.  For  the 
clouds  had  come  again,  the  wind  had  risen  with  a 
fiercer  bite  than  ever  in  it;  again  the  snow  was 
falling.  But  the  grim  little  army  of  rescuers, 
plodding  from  one  ranchhouse  to  another,  had  less 
of  worriment  in  their  features  now, — even  though 
the  situation  was  no  less  tense,  no  less  dangerous. 


220  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

At  least  the  meager  stores  of  the  small  merchandise 
establishment  in  Tabernacle  could  be  distributed 
with  more  ease;  a  two-inch  crust  of  snow  had 
formed  over  the  main  snowfall,  permitting  small 
sleds  to  be  pulled  behind  struggling  men;  the  world 
beneath  had  been  frozen  in,  to  give  place  to  a  new 
one  above.  And  with  that: 

"It's  open!  It's  open!"  The  shout  came  from 
the  lips  of  the  telegrapher,  waving  his  arms  as  he 
ran  from  the  tunnel  that  led  to  the  stationhouse. 
"It's  open!  I've  had  Rawlins  on  the  wire!" 

Men  crowded  about  him  and  thumped  into  the 
little  box  car  to  listen,  like  children,  to  the  rattling 
of  the  telegraph  key, — as  though  they  never  had 
heard  one  before.  So  soon  does  civilization  feel 
the  need  of  its  inventions,  once  they  are  taken  away; 
so  soon  does  the  mind  become  primitive,  once  the 
rest  of  the  world  has  been  shut  away  from  it. 
Eagerly  they  clustered  there,  staring  with  anxious 
eyes  toward  the  operator  as  he  hammered  at  the 
key,  talking  in  whispers  lest  they  disturb  him, 
waiting  for  his  interpretation  of  the  message,  like 
worshippers  waiting  for  the  word  of  an  oracle. 

"I'm  putting  it  all  on  the  wire!"  he  announced 
at  last,  with  feverish  intensity.  "I'm  telling  'em 
just  how  it  is  over  here.  Maybe  they  can  do  some- 
thing— from  Rawlins." 

"Rawlins?"  Houston  had  edged  forward. 
"There's  not  a  chance.  It's  hundreds  of  miles 
away;  they  can't  use  horses,  and  they  certainly  can't 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  221 

walk.  Wait — will  you  give  me  a  chance  at  some- 
thing?" 

A  gleam  had  come  into  his  eyes.  His  hands 
twisted  nervously.  Voices  mumbled  about  him; 
suddenly  the  great  hands  of  Ba'tiste  grasped  him 
by  the  shoulders  and  literally  tossed  him  toward 
the  telegrapher. 

"Ah,  oui!    If  eet  is  the  idea — then  speak  it." 

"Go  on — "  the  telegrapher  had  stopped  his  key 
for  a  moment— "I'll  put  it  through,  if  it'll  help." 

"All  right.  Get  Denver  on  the  wire.  Then 
take  this  message  to  every  newspaper  in  the  city: 

'  'Can't  you  help  us?  Please  try  to  start  cam- 
paign to  force  Crestline  Road  to  open  the  Pass. 
Women  and  children  are  starving  here.  We 
have  been  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  for 
two  we^ks.  We  need  food — and  coal.  Road 
will  not  be  open  for  four  or  five  weeks  more  under 
ordinary  circumstances.  This  will  mean  death  to 
many  of  us  here,  the  wiping  out  of  a  great  timber 
and  agricultural  country,  and  a  blot  on  the  history 
of  Colorado.  Help  us — and  we  will  not  forget  it. 
"  'THE  CITIZENS  OF  THE  WEST  COUNTRY.'  " 

"Ah,  oui!"  Old  Ba'tiste  was  addressing  the  rest 
of  the  crowd.  "The  newspapers,  they  can  help, 
better  than  any  one  else.  Eet  is  our  chance.  Bon 
— good!  Mon  Baree,  he  have  the  big,  what-you- 
say,  sentiment." 

"Sounds  good."  The  telegrapher  was  busily 
putting  it  on  the  wire.  Then  a  wait  of  hours, — 
hours  in  which  the  operator  varied  his  routine  by 


222  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

sending  the  word  of  the  stricken  country  to  Chey- 
enne, to  Colorado  Springs,  to  Pueblo,  and  thence, 
through  the  news  agencies,  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

"Might  as  well  get  everybody  in  on  it,"  he 
mused,  as  he  pounded  the  telegraph  instrument; 
"can't  tell — some  of  those  higher-ups  might  be  in 
New  York  and  think  there  wasn't  anything  to  it 
unless  they  could  see  it  in  the  New  York  papers. 
I — "  Then  he  stopped  as  the  wire  cut  under  his 
finger  and  clattered  forth  a  message.  He  jumped. 
He  grasped  Ba'tiste  in  his  lank  arms,  then  turned 
beaming  to  the  rest  of  the  gaping  crowd. 

"It's  from  the  papers  in  Denver!"  he  shouted. 
"A  joint  message.  They've  taken  up  the  fight!" 

A  fight  which  had  its  echoes  in  the  little  rail- 
road box  car,  the  center  of  the  deadened,  shrouded 
West  Country,  the  news  of  which  must  travel  to 
Cheyenne,  to  Rawlins,  thence  far  down  through 
the  northern  country  over  illy  patched  telegraph 
wires  before  it  reached  the  place  for  which  it  was 
intended,  the  box  car  and  its  men  who  came  and 
went,  eager  for  the  slightest  word  from  the  far- 
away, yet  grudging  of  their  time,  lest  darkness  still 
find  them  in  the  snows,  and  night  come  upon  them 
struggling  to  reach  the  little  town  and  send  them 
into  wandering,  aimless  journeys  that  might  end  in 
death.  For  the  snows  still  swirled,  the  storms  still 
came  and  went,  the  red  ball  of  the  sun  still  refused 
to  come  forth  in  its  beaming  strength.  And  it  was 
during  this  period  of  uncertainty  that  Houston  met 
Ba'tiste  Renaud,  returning  from  a  cruising  expedi- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  223 

tion  far  in  the  lake  region,  to  find  him  raging,  his 
fists  clenched,  his  eyes  blazing. 

"Is  eet  that  the  world  is  all  unjust?"  he  roared, 
as  he  faced  Houston.  "Is  eet  that  some  of  us  do 
our  part,  while  others  store  up  for  emergency? 
Eh?  Bah!  I  am  the  mad  enough  to  tear  them 
apart!" 

"Who?     What's  gone  wrong?" 

"I  am  the  mad!  You  have  no  seen  the  M'sieu 
Thayer  during  all  the  storm?" 

"No." 

"Nor  the  M'sieu  Blackburn?  Nor  the  men  who 
work  for  them.  Eh?  You  have  no  seen  them?" 

"No,  not  once." 

"Ah !  I  pass  to-day  the  Blackburn  mill.  They 
have  shovel  out  about  the  sawshed.  They  have  the 
saw  going, — they  keep  at  work,  when  there  are 
the  women  and  the  babies  who  starve,  when  there 
are  the  cattle  who  are  dying,  when  there  is  the 
country  that  is  like  a  broken  thing.  But  they  work 
— for  themself !  They  saw  the  log  into  the  tie — 
they  work  from  the  piles  of  timber  which  they  have 
about  the  sawmill,  to  store  up  the  supply.  They 
know  that  we  do  not  get  our  machinery!  They 
have  think  they  have  a  chance — for  the  contract!" 

It  brought  Houston  to  a  sharp  knowledge  of 
conditions.  They  had  given,  that  the  rest  of  the 
country  might  not  suffer.  Their  enemies  had 
worked  on,  fired  with  the  new  hope  that  the  road 
over  the  mountains  would  not  be  opened;  that  the 
machinery  so  necessary  to  the  carrying  out  of  Hous- 


224  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

ton's  contract  would  not  arrive  in  time  to  be  of 
aid.  For  without  the  ability  to  carry  out  the  first 
necessities  of  that  agreement,  the  rest  must  surely 
and  certainly  fail.  Long  before,  Houston  had 
realized  the  danger  that  the  storm  meant;  there 
had  been  no  emergency  clause  in  the  contract. 
Now  his  hands  clenched,  his  teeth  gritted. 

"It  almost  seems  that  there's  a  premium  on  be- 
ing crooked,  Ba'tiste,"  came  at  last.  "It- 
Then  he  ceased.  A  shout  had  come  from  the 
distance.  Faintly  through  the  sifting  snow  they 
could  see  figures  running.  Then  the  words  came, 
— faint,  far-away,  shrill  shouts  forcing  their  way 
through  the  veil  of  the  storm. 

"They're  going  to  open  the  road!  They're  go- 
ing to  open  the  road!" 

Here,  there  and  back  again  it  came,  men  calling 
to  men,  the  few  women  of  the  little  settlement 
braving  the  storm  that  they  too  might  add  to  the 
gladful  cry.  Already,  according  to  the  telegram, 
snow-fighting  machinery  and  men  were  being  as- 
sembled in  Denver  for  the  first  spurt  toward  Tol- 
lifer,  and  from  there  through  the  drifts  and  slides 
of  the  hills  toward  Crestline.  Ba'tiste  and  Hous- 
ton were  running  now,  as  fast  as  their  snowshoes 
would  allow,  oblivious  for  once  of  the  cut  of  the 
wind  and  the  icy  particles  of  its  frigid  breath. 

"They  open  the  road!"  boomed  Ba'tiste  in  chorus 
with  the  rest  of  the  little  town.  "Ah,  out!  They 
open  the  road.  The  Crestline  Railroad,  he  have 
a  heart  after  all,  he  have  a — " 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  225 

"Any  old  time!"  It  was  a  message  bearer  com- 
ing from  the  shack  of  a  station.  "They're  not 
going  to  do  it— it's  the  M.  P.  &  S.  L." 

"Through  the  tunnel?" 

"No.  Over  the  hill.  According  to  the  message, 
the  papers  hammered  the  stuffing  out  of  the  Crest- 
line road.  But  you've  got  to  admit  that  they 
haven't  got  either  the  motive  power  or  the  money. 
The  other  road  saw  a  great  chance  to  step  in  and 
make  itself  solid  with  this  country  over  here.  It's 
lending  the  men  and  the  rolling  stock.  They're 
going  to  open  another  fellow's  road,  for  the  pub- 
licity and  the  good  will  that's  in  it." 

A  grin  came  to  Houston's  lips, — the -first  one  in 
weeks.  He  banged  Ba'tiste  on  his  heavily  wadded 
shoulder. 

"That's  the  kind  of  railroad  to  work  for!" 

"Ah,  out!  And  when  eet  come  through — ah, 
we  shall  help  to  build  it." 

Two  pictures  flashed  across  Houston's  brain ;  one 
of  a  snowy  sawmill  with  the  force  working  day 
and  night,  when  all  the  surrounding  country  cried 
for  help,  working  toward  its  selfish  ends  that  it 
might  have  a  supply  of  necessary  lumber  in  case 
a  more  humane  organization  should  fail;  another 
of  carload  after  carload  of  necessary  machinery, 
snow-covered,  ice-bound,  on  a  sidetrack  at  Tollifer, 
with  the  whole,  horrible,  snow-clutched  fierceness 
of  the  Continental  Divide  between  it  and  its  goal. 

"I  hope  so!"  he  exclaimed  fervently.  "I  hope 
so!" 


226  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

Then,  swept  along  by  hurrying  forms,  they 
went  on  toward  the  station  house,  there  to  receive 
the  confirmation  of  the  glad  news,  to  shout  until 
their  throats  were  raw,  and  then,  still  with  their 
duties  before  them,  radiate  once  more  on  their  mis- 
sions of  mercy.  For  the  announcement  of  inten- 
tion was  no  accomplishment.  It  was  one  thing  for 
the  snowplows  and  the  gangs  and  tremendous  en- 
gines of  the  M.  P.  &  S.  L.  to  attempt  to  open 
the  road  over  the  divide.  But  it  was  quite  another 
thing  to  do  it! 

All  that  day  Houston  thought  of  it,  dreamed 
of  it,  tried  to  visualize  it, — the  fight  of  a  railroad 
against  the  snows  of  the  hills.  He  wondered  how 
the  snowplows  would  work,  how  they  would  break 
through  the  long,  black  snowsheds,  now  crammed 
with  the  thing  which  they  had  been  built  to  resist. 
He  thought  of  the  laborers;  and  his  breath  pulled 
sharply.  Would  they  have  enough  men?  It 
would  be  grueling  work  up  there,  terrific  work; 
would  there  be  sufficient  laborers  who  would  be 
willing  to  undergo  the  hardships  for  the  money 
they  received?  Would — 

In  the  night  he  awoke,  again  thinking  of  it. 
Every  possible  hand  that  could  swing  a  pick  or 
jam  a  crowbar  against  grudging  ice  would  be 
needed  up  there.  Every  pair  of  shoulders  willing 
to  assume  the  burdens  of  a  horrible  existence  that 
others  might  live  would  be  welcomed.  A  mad  de- 
sire began  to  come  over  him;  a  strange,  impelling 
scheme  took  hold  of  his  brain.  They  would  need 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  227 

men, — men  who  would  not  be  afraid,  men  who 
would  be  willing  to  slave  day  and  night  if  neces- 
sary to  the  success  of  the  adventure.  And  who 
should  be  more  willing  than  he?  His  future,  his 
life,  his  chance  of  success,  where  now  was  failure, 
lay  at  Tollifer.  His  hands  would  be  more  than 
eager!  His  muscles  more  than  glad  to  ache  with 
the  fatigue  of  manual  labor!  Long  before  dawn 
he  rose  and  scribbled  a  note  in  the  dim  light  of  the 
old  kerosene  lamp  in  the  makeshift  lobby,  a  note  to 
Ba'tiste  Renaud: 

"I'm  going  over  the  range.  I  can't  wait.  They 
may  need  me.  I'm  writing  this,  because  you  would 
try  to  dissuade  me  if  I  told  you  personally.  Don't 
be  afraid  for  me — I'll  make  it  somehow.  I've  got 
to  go.  It's  easier  than  standing  by. 

"HOUSTON." 

Then,  his  snowshoes  affixed,  he  went  out  into 
the  night.  The  stars  were  shining  dimly,  and 
Houston  noticed  them  with  an  air  of  thankfulness 
as  he  took  the  trail  of  the  telephone  poles  and 
started  toward  the  faint  outline  of  the  mountains 
in  the  distance.  It  would  make  things  easier;  but 
an  hour  later,  as  he  looked  for  a  dawn  that  did  not 
come,  he  realized  that  it  had  been  only  a  jest  of 
the  night.  The  storm  clouds  were  thick  on  the 
sky  again,  the  snow  was  dashing  about  him  once 
more;  half-blindly,  gropingly,  he  sought  to  force 
his  way  from  one  pole  to  another, — in  vain. 

He  measured  his  steps,  and  stopping,  looked 


228  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

about  him.  He  had  traveled  the  distance  from 
one  pole  to  another,  yet  in  the  sweep  of  the  darting 
sheet  of  white  he  could  discern  no  landmark,  noth- 
ing to  guide  him  farther  on  his  journey.  He 
floundered  aimlessly,  striving  by  short  sallies  to 
recover  the  path  from  which  the  storm  had  taken 
him,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  If  dawn  would  only 
come! 

Again  and  again,  hardly  realizing  the  dangers 
to  which  he  was  subjecting  himself,  Houston  sought 
to  regain  his  lost  sense  of  direction.  Once  faintly, 
in  the  far-away,  as  the  storm  lifted  for  a  moment, 
he  thought  that  he  glimpsed  a  pole  and  hurried  to- 
ward it  with  new  hope,  only  to  find  it  a  stalwart 
trunk  of  a  dead  tree,  rearing  itself  above  the 
mound-like  drifts.  Discouraged,  half-beaten,  he 
tried  again,  only  to  wander  farther  than  ever  from 
the  trail.  Dawn  found  him  at  last,  floundering 
hopelessly  in  snow-screened  woods,  going  on  toward 
he  knew  not  where. 

A  half -hour,  then  he  stopped.  Fifty  feet  away, 
almost  covered  by  the  changing  snows,  a  small 
cabin  showed  faintly,  as  though  struggling  to  free 
itself  from  the  bonds  of  white,  and  Houston  turned 
toward  it  eagerly.  His  numbed  hands  banged  at 
the  door,  but  there  came  no  answer.  He  shouted; 
still  no  sound  came  from  within,  and  he  turned  the 
creaking,  protesting  knob. 

The  door  yielded,  and  climbing  over  the  pile  of 
snow  at  the  step,  Houston  guided  his  snowshoes 
through  the  narrow  door,  blinking  in  the  half- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  229 

light  in  an  effort  to  see  about  him.  There  was  a 
stove,  but  the  fire  was  dead.  At  the  one  little  win- 
dow, the  curtain  was  drawn  tight  and  pinned  at 
the  sides  to  the  sash.  There  was  a  bed — and  the 
form  of  some  one  beneath  the  covers.  Houston 
called  again,  but  still  there  came  no  answer.  He 
turned  to  the  window,  and  ripping  the  shade  from 
its  fastenings,  once  more  sought  the  bed,  to  bend 
over  and  to  stare  in  dazed,  bewildered  fashion,  as 
though  in  a  dream.  He  was  looking  into  the 
drawn,  haggard  features  of  an  unconscious  wo- 
man, the  eyes  half -open,  yet  unseeing,  one  emaci- 
ated hand  grasped  about  something  that  was 
shielded  by  the  covers.  Houston  forced  himself 
even  closer.  He  touched  the  hand.  He  called: 

"Agnes!" 

The  eyelids  moved  slightly;  it  was  the  only 
evidence  of  life,  save  the  labored,  irregular 
breathing.  Then  the  hand  moved,  clutchingly. 
Slowly,  tremblingly,  Houston  turned  back  an  edge 
of  the  blankets, — and  stood  aghast. 

On  her  breast  was  a  baby — dead  I 


CHAPTER  XX 

There  was  no  time  for  conjectures.  The  woman 
meant  a  human  life, — in  deadly  need  of  resuscita- 
tion, and  Barry  leaped  to  his  task. 

Warmth  was  the  first  consideration,  and  he 
hurried  to  the  sheet-iron  stove,  with  its  pile  of  wood 
stacked  behind,  noticing,  as  he  built  the  fire,  cans 
and  packages  of  provisions  upon  the  shelf  over  the 
small  wooden  table,  evidence  that  some  one  other 
than  the  woman  herself  had  looked  after  the  de- 
tails of  stocking  the  cabin  with  food  and  of  pro- 
viding against  emergencies.  At  least  a  portion  of 
the  wood  as  he  shoved  it  into  the  stove  crackled 
and  spit  with  the  wetness  of  snow;  the  box  had 
been  replenished,  evidently  within  the  last  few  days. 

Soon  water  was  boiling.  Hot  cloths  went  to 
the  woman's  head;  quietly,  reverently,  Barry  had 
taken  the  still,  small  child  from  the  tightly  clenched 
arm  and  covered  it,  on  the  little  table.  And  with 
the  touch  of  the  small,  lifeless  form,  the  resent- 
ment which  had  smoldered  in  Houston's  heart 
for  months  seemed  to  disappear.  Instinctively  he 
knew  what  a  baby  means  to  a  mother, — and  she  must 
be  its  mother.  He  understood  that  the  agony  of 
loss  which  was  hers  was  far  greater  even  than  the 
agony  which  her  faithlessness  had  meant  for  him. 
Gently,  almost  tenderly,  he  went  again  to  the  bed, 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  231 

to  chafe  the  cold,  thin  wrists,  to  watch  anxiously 
the  eyes,  then  at  last  to  bend  forward.  The  wo- 
man was  looking  at  him,  staring  with  fright  in  her 
gaze,  almost  terror. 

"Barry — "  the  word  was  more  of  a  mumble. 
"Barry — "  then  the  eyes  turned,  searching  for  the 
form  that  no  longer  was  beside  her.  "My — 
my — "  Then,  with  a  spasm  of  realization,  she 
was  silent.  Houston  strove  dully  for  words. 

"I'm  sorry — Agnes.  Don't  be  afraid  of  me. 
I'll  get  help  for  you." 

"Don't."  The  voice  was  a  monotone,  minus  ex- 
pression, almost  minus  life.  The  face  had  become 
blank,  so  much  parchment  drawn  over  bone.  "I've 
been  sick — my  baby — where's  my  baby?" 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"Yes,"  came  at  last.  There  was  the  dullness  that 
comes  when  grief  has  reached  the  breaking  point. 
"Dead.  It  died — yesterday  morning." 

Houston  could  say  nothing  in  answer.  The 
simple  statement  was  too  tragic,  too  full  of  mean- 
ing, too  fraught  with  the  agony  of  that  long  day 
and  night  of  suffering,  for  any  reply  in  words 
that  would  not  jar,  or  cause  even  a  greater  pang. 
Quietly  he  turned  to  the  stove,  red-hot  now,  and 
with  snow  water  began  the  making  of  gruel  from 
the  supplies  on  the  shelf.  Once  he  turned,  sud- 
denly aware  that  the  eyes  of  the  woman  were  cen- 
tered in  his  direction.  But  they  were  not  upon 
him;  their  gaze  was  for  one  thing,  one  alone, — 
that  tiny,  covered  form  on  the  table. 


232  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

An  hour  passed  silently,  except  for  the  trivial- 
ities of  speech  accompanying  the  proffered  food. 
Then,  at  last,  forcing  himself  to  the  subject,  Hous- 
ton asked  a  question: 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Who?"  Sudden  fright  had  come  into  the  wo- 
man's eyes.  A  name  formed  on  Houston's  lips, 
only  to  be  forced  back  into  the  more  general  query: 

"Your  husband." 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"You've  got  me,  haven't  you,  Barry?"  A  half- 
hysterical  tone  came  now.  "You  know  a  lot — and 
you  want  the  rest,  so  you  can  pay  me  back,  don't 
you?  Oh,"  and  the  thin  fingers  plucked  at  the 
bedclothes,  "I  expected  it!  I  expected  it!  I 
knew  sooner  or  later — " 

"If  you're  talking  about  me,  Agnes — and  what 
I've  been  led  to  believe,  we'll  save  that  for  a 
future  time.  I  think  I'm  enough  of  a  man  not  to 
harass  a  person  in  time  of  grief." 

"Coals  of  fire,  eh?"  A  tinge  of  her  old  expres- 
sion had  come  back,  with  returning  strength. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind.  I  simply  wanted  to  help 
you — because  you're  a  woman  in  trouble.  You're 
sick.  Your  baby's — gone.  If  I  can  get  your  hus- 
band for  you,  I — " 

But  she  shook  her  head,  suddenly  weak  and 
broken,  suddenly  only  what  Barry  was  trying  to 
make  of  her  in  his  mind,  a  grieving  woman,  in  need,  i 

"We're — not  married.  You'll  know  it  sooner 
or  later.  I — I  don't  know  where  he  is.  He  was 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  9  233 

here  three  days  ago  and  was  coining  back  that 
night.  But  he  didn't.  Maybe  he's  gone —  he'd 
threatened  it." 

"He?     You  mean— " 

She  pressed  her  lips  tight. 

"I'm  not  going  to  tell — yet.  You've  got  to  do 
something  for  me  first.  I'm  in  trouble — "  she 
was  speaking  rapidly  now,  the  words  flooding  over 
her  lips  between  gasps,  her  eyes  set,  her  hands 
knitting.  "My  baby's  dead.  You  know  that, 
don't  you?"  she  asked  suddenly,  in  apparent  forget- 
fulness  of  any  previous  conversation.  "My  baby's 
dead.  It  died  yesterday  morning — all  day  long  I 
held  it  in  my  arms  and  cried.  Then  I  slept,  didn't 
I?" 

"You  were  unconscious." 

"Maybe  I'm  going  to  die."  There  was  child- 
ishness in  the  voice.  "Like  my  baby.  I  baptized 
her  before  she  went.  Maybe  I'm  going  to  die  too." 

"I  hope  not,  Agnes." 

"You'd  like  to  see  me  die!"  The  frail  bonds 
of  an  illness-ridden  brain  were  straining  at  their 
leash.  "I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes.  You'd  like  to 
see  me  die!" 

"Why?"  he  could  think  of  nothing  else. 

"Because — "  and  then  she  stopped.  "No — 
you're  trying  to  get  me  to  tell — but  I  won't;  I'll 
tell  when  you  come  back — I'll  tell  what  I  said  and 
did  when  you  bring  me  the  note  from  the  priest. 
You  want  me  to  tell,  don't  you?  Don't  you? 
That's  what  you  came  here  for.  You  found  out 


234  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

I  was  here.     I — did  he  tell?"  she  asked  sharply. 

Barry  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know  who  you  mean,  Agnes." 

"No?    I  think  you're—" 

"I  was  on  my  way  over  the  range.  I  got  lost 
in  the  storm  and  stumbled  in  here."  He  looked 
out.  "It's  let  up  some  now.  Maybe  I  could  find 
my  way  back  to  town — you  must  have  a  doctor." 

"I  don't  want  a  doctor!  I  want  to  go — with  my 
baby.  And  I  don't  want  him  to  know — under- 
stand that — "  with  a  struggle  she  raised  to  one 
elbow,  eyes  suddenly  blazing  with  the  flashes  of 
her  disordered  brain,  features  strained  and  excited. 
"I  don't  want  him  to  know!  He  ran  away  and 
left  me  for  three  days.  The  fire  went  out — my 
baby — "  hysterical  laughter  broke  from  her  dry 
lips —  "My  baby  died,  and  still  he  didn't  come. 
He—" 

"Agnes!"  Houston  grasped  her  hands.  "Try 
to  control  yourself!  Maybe  he  couldn't  get  back. 
The  storm—" 

"Yes,  the  storm!  It's  always  the  storm!  We 
would  have  been  married — but  there  was  the  storm. 
He  couldn't  marry  me  months  ago — when  I  found 
out — and  when  I  came  back  out  here!  He  couldn't 
marry  me  then.  'Wait' ;  that's  what  he  always  said 
— 'wait — '  and  I  waited.  Now — "  then  the  voice 
trailed  off — "it's  been  three  days.  He  promised  to 
be  back.  But—" 

Houston  sought  to  end  the  repetition. 

"Perhaps  I  could  find  him  and  bring  him  here." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  235 

But  it  was  useless.  The  woman  drifted  back 
to  her  rambling  statements.  Laughter  and  tears 
followed  one  another  in  quick  succession ;  the  break- 
ing of  restraint  had  come  at  last.  At  last  she 
turned,  and  staring  with  glazed  eyes  into  those  of 
Houston,  burst  forth. 

"You  hate  me,  don't  you?" 

«T  J> 

"Don't  deny  it!"  Querulous  imperiousness  was 
in  the  voice.  "You  hate  me — you'll  go  back  to 
Boston  and  tell  my  mother  about  this.  I  know— 
you've  got  the  upper  hand  now.  You'll  tell  her 
why  I  came  out  here — you'll  tell  her  about  the 
baby,  won't  you?  Yes,  you'll — " 

"I'll  tell  nothing  of  the  sort,  Agnes.  I  don't 
fight  that  way.  You  ought  to  know  that.  You've 
been  my  enemy,  I'll  admit.  I've  felt  bitter,  ter- 
ribly so,  against  you.  I  believed  that  you  used 
my  trust  to  betray  me.  But  I  believe  I  know  the 
reason  now.  Besides,  the  harm's  done.  It's  in 
the  past.  I  fight  men,  not  women." 

"Do  you  want  help?"  A  thin  hand  stretched 
out.  "Will  you  give  me  a  promise — if  I  give  you 
one?" 

"About  what,  Agnes?" 

'"My  baby.  You — you're  not  going  to  let  it 
stay  there?  You're — " 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  do.  I  thought  after 
you  were  better,  I'd — " 

"I'm  better  now."  She  tried  to  rise.  "I'm 
better — see?  I've  more  strength.  You  could 


236  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

leave  me  alone.     I — I  want  you  to  take  my  baby." 

"Where?" 

"Where  she  can  sleep  in  peace — in  hallowed 
ground.  I — I  want  a  priest  for  her.  Tell  him 
that  I  baptized  her  Helena." 

"Yes.     And  the  other  name?" 

A  weird  laugh  came  from,  the  colorless  lips. 

"She  hasn't  one." 

"But—" 

"Then  use  mine — so  you'll  have  evidence  that 
I'm  not  married.  Use  mine,  if  that's  the  kind  of 
a  man  you  are — so  you  can  go  back  and  tell  them 
—back  home— that  I— I—"  The  last  bond  had 
snapped.  She  caught  at  him  with  clawing  hands, 
her  eyes  wild,  her  teeth  showing  from  behind  tightly 
drawn  lips.  "Torture  me — that's  it — torture  me! 
At  least,  I  didn't  do  that  to  you!  I  told  you  that 
I  believed  in  you — at  least  that  cheered  you  up 
when  you  needed  it — I  didn't  tell  you  that  I  be- 
lieved you  guilty.  Did  I?  I  didn't  continually 
ask  you  for  the  name  of  the  man  you'd  killed? 
Oh,  there  were  other  things — I  know  there  were 
other  things — "  the  lips  seemed  to  fairly  stream 

words,  "but  at  least,  I  didn't  torture  you.     I— 
j » 

Then  she  halted,  for  the  briefest  part  of  a  mo- 
ment, to  become  suddenly  madly  cajoling,  crazily 
cunning : 

"Listen,  Barry,  listen  to  me.  You  want  to 
know  things.  I  can  tell  them  to  you — oh,  so  many 
of  them.  I'll  tell  them  too — if  you'll  only  do  this 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  237 

for  me.  It's  my  baby — my  baby.  Don't  you 
know  what  that  means?  Won't  you  promise  for 
me?  Take  her  to  a  priest — please,  Barry — for 
what  you  once  thought  I  was?  Won't  you,  Barry? 
Haven't  I  had  punishment  enough?  Did  you  ever 
lie  all  day  and  listen  to  the  wind  shriek,  waiting 
for  somebody  who  didn't  come — with  your  dead 
baby  in  your  arms?  Do  you  want  to  punish  me 
more?  Do  you  want  me  to  die  too — or  do  you 
want  me  to  live  and  tell  you  why  I  did  the  things 
I  did?  Do  you?  Do  you  want  to  know  who  was 
back  of  everything?  I  didn't  do  it  for  myself, 
Barry.  It  was  some  one  else — I'll  help  you, 
Barry,  honestly  I'll  help  you." 

"About  the  murder?"  Houston  was  leaning 
forward  now,  tense,  hopeful.  But  the  woman 
shook  her  head. 

"No — I  don't  know  about  that.  Maybe  you  did 
it — I  can't  say.  It's  about  other  things — the  lease, 
and  the  contract.  I'll  help  you  about  that — if 
you'll  help  me.  Take  my  baby — " 

"And  keep  your  secret,  Agnes?    Is  that  it?" 

"Will  you?"  The  woman's  eyes  were  gleaming 
strangely.  "My  mother  doesn't  know.  She's 
old — you  know  fier,  Barry.  She  thinks  I'm — what 
I  should  have  been.  That's  why  I  came  back  out 
here.  I— I—" 

The  man  rose.  He  walked  to  the  window  and 
stood  for  a  long  time  looking  out,  trying  to  close 
his  ears  to  the  ramblings  of  the  woman  on  the  bed, 
striving  to  find  a  way  to  keep  the  promise  she 


238  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

sought.  For  just  a  moment  the  old  hatred  flooded 
through  him,  the  resentment  toward  this  being  who 
had  been  an  integral  factor  in  all  the  troubles  which 
had  pursued  him  in  his  efforts  to  beat  back  to  a 
new  life.  But  as  swift  as  they  came,  they  faded. 
No  longer  was  she  an  enemy;  only  a  broken, 
beaten  woman,  her  empty  arms  aching  as  her  heart 
ached;  harassed  by  fears  of  exposure  to  the  one 
woman  in  whom  she  still  desired  to  be  held  in 
honor,  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  man  who  had  led 
her  on  through  the  byways  of  love  into  a  dismal 
maze  of  chicanery.  Only  a  woman,  ill,  perhaps 
dying.  A  woman  crying  out  for  the  one  boon  that 
she  could  ask  of  a  person  she  knew  to  distrust  and 
despise  her,  seeking  the  thing  that  now  was  her 
greatest  desire  in  the  world,  and  willing  to  promise 
— whether  truthfully  or  not,  Barry  had  no  way  of 
telling — to  reveal  to  him  secrets  of  the  past,  if  he 
would  but  comply.  Was  she  honest?  As  he  stood 
there  looking  out  at  the  snow,  it  seemed  to  make 
little  difference.  Was  she  sincere?  He  would 
strive  to  aid  a  dumb  brute  if  he  found  it  in  dis- 
tress. At  last  he  turned  and  walked  to  the  bed. 

"I'll  promise,  Agnes.  If  you  want  to  help  me 
afterward,  well  and  good.  If  not — you  are  free 
to  do  as  you  please.  I  suppose  you  want  her 
dressed  before — " 

"Yes."  The  woman  had  raised  eagerly.  "There 
are  clothes — she's  never  had  on — in  the  bottom 
drawer  of  that  old  bureau.  Take  them  with  you. 
Then  look  in  a  box  in  the  top  drawer.  You'll  find 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  239 

a  crucifix.  They — they  might  want  to  put  it  on 
her." 

She  sank  back  in  the  bed,  and  Barry  went  to 
ihis  task  of  searching  the  drawers  of  the  rickety  old 
bureau.  In  a  mass  of  tangled,  old-fashioned  jew- 
elry, he  found  the  crucifix,  its  chain  broken  and 
twisted,  and  placed  it  in  a  pocket.  Then  he  turned 
to  the  grimmer  task, — and  the  good-by.  A  half- 
hour  later,  white-featured,  his  arms  cupped  gently 
about  a  blanket-wrapped  form,  he  stepped  forth 
into  the  storm,  and  bending  against  the  wind, 
turned  toward  the  railroad  in  obedience  to  the  hazy 
directions  of  the  sobbing  woman  he  had  left  be- 
hind. 

The  snowfall  was  lighter  now;  he  could  find  his 
way  more  easily.  A  half-hour  passed,  and  he 
stopped,  kneeling  and  resting  the  tiny,  still  bundle 
upon  his  knees  to  relieve  his  aching  arms.  Then 
on  again  in  plodding  perseverance, — fulfilling  a 
promise  to  a  woman  who  had  done  her  best  to 
wreck  his  existence. 

A  mile  farther,  and  the  railroad  telegraph  poles 
appeared.  Houston  saw  them  with  grateful  eyes, 
though  with  concern.  He  knew  to  a  certainty  that 
there  was  no  priest  in  Tabernacle,  and  what  his 
story  would  be  when  he  got  there  was  a  little  more 
than  he  could  hazard.  To  Ba'tiste,  he  would  tell 
the  truth;  to  others,  there  must  simply  be  some 
fabrication  that  would  hold  for  the  moment  and 
that  would  allow  him  to  go  on — while  Ba'tiste — 

But    suddenly    he    ceased    his    plans.    Black 


240  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

splotches  against  the  snow,  two  figures  suddenly 
had  come  out  of  the  sweeping  veil, — a  girl  and  a 
man.  Something  akin  to  panic  seized  Houston. 
The  man  was  Lost  Wing,  faithfully  in  the  back- 
ground as  usual.  The  girl  was  Medaine  Robin- 
ette. 

For  once  Houston  hoped  that  she  would  pass 
him  as  usual, — with  averted  eyes.  He  did  not  care 
to  make  explanations,  to  be  forced  to  lie  to  her. 
But  Fate  was  against  him.  A  moment  more  and 
the  storm  closed  in  again,  with  one  of  its  fitful 
gusts,  only  to  clear  at  last  and  to  leave  them  face 
to  face.  Medaine's  eyes  went  with  womanly  in- 
stinct to  the  bundle  in  his  arms.  And  even  though 
she  could  see  nothing  but  the  roundness  of  the 
blankets,  the  tender  manner  in  which  Barry  Hous- 
ton held  the  poor,  inanimate  little  parcel  was 
enough. 

"A  baby!"  There  was  surprise  in  her  tone. 
Forgetting  for  the  moment  her  aversion  to  the 
man  himself,  she  came  forward,  touching  the  blan- 
kets, then  lifting  one  edge  ever  so  slightly  that 
she  might  peer  beneath.  "Where  did  you  find 
it?  Whose  is  it?" 

Houston  sought  vainly  for  words.  He  stam- 
mered,— a  promise  made  to  an  enemy  struggling  for 
supremacy.  And  the  words  seem  to  come  unbid- 
den: 

"Does  it  matter?" 

"Of  course  not."  She  looked  at  him  queerly. 
"I  merely  thought  I  could  be  of  assistance." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  241 

"You  can.     Tell  me  where  I  can  find  a  priest." 

"A  priest?" 

"Yes,  I  need  him — the  baby  is  dead." 

"Oh."  She  touched  the  bundle  ever  so  softly. 
"I  didn't  know."  Then  with  a  sudden  thought; 
"But  her  mother.  She  must  need — " 

"Only  a  doctor.  I  will  try  to  get  Ba'tiste  to 
come  out." 

"But  couldn't  I—" 

"I'm  sorry."  Barry  tried  in  vain  for  the  words 
that  would  tell  her  the  truth,  yet  tell  her  nothing. 
He  felt  that  he  was  miring  himself  hopelessly,  that 
his  denials  and  his  efforts  at  secrecy  could  cause 
only  one  idea  to  form  in  her  brain.  He  wanted  to 
tell  her  the  truth,  to  ask  her  aid,  to  send  her  back  into 
the  woods  to  the  assistance  of  the  stricken  woman 
there.  But  he  could  not  frame  the  request.  In- 
stead, "I — I  can't  tell  you.  I've  given  a  woman 
my  word.  She  wouldn't  understand — if  you  went 
there.  With  Ba'tiste,  it  is  different.  He  is  a  doctor. 
He  has  a  right.  I— I—" 

"I  understand,"  came  quietly,  and  in  those  two 
words  Houston  felt  that  her  opinion  had  been 
formed;  that  to  her,  he  was  the  father;  the  quiet 
form  in  his  arms  his  own  child !  It  was  like  a  blow 
to  him;  yet  it  was  only  what  he  had  expected 
from  the  moment  that  he  had  recognized  her. 
And  after  all,  he  felt  that  it  did  not  matter ;  it  was 
only  one  more  false  accusation  to  be  added  to  the 
total,  only  one  more  height  to  be  added  to  the 
barrier  which  already  existed  between  them.  He 


242  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

accepted  her  attitude — in  spite  of  the  pain  it 
brought — and  faced  her. 

"You  were  willing  to  help — before  you — knew. 
You  would  have  been  glad  to  help  in  the  case  of 
a  stranger.  Are  you  still  willing — now?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  her  eyes  downcast,  at 
last  to  force  a  smile. 

"Of  course.  But  you  are  asking  something  al- 
most impossible.  The  nearest  priest  is  at  Crest- 
line." 

"Crestline?"  Houston  instinctively  turned  to- 
ward the  hills,  a  bleak,  forbidding  wall  against  the 
sky.  "I—" 

"Rather,  a  mile  below  there  at  the  Croatian  set- 
tlement on  Mount  Harris.  I  am  afraid  you 
couldn't  find  it." 

"I  can  try.  Will  you  lend  me  Lost  Wing  to 
run  an  errand?  I  want  to  get  Ba'tiste — for  her." 

"Certainly." 

"May  I  talk  to  him  privately?  He  understands 
English?" 

She  nodded.     Then: 

"I  will  tell  Lost  Wing  that  anything  you  have 
to  say  to  him  shall  be  a  secret  even  from  me.  I 
— do  not  want  to  know  it." 

She  spoke  to  the  Indian  in  Sioux  then  and  drew 
away,  her  eyes  on  the  tracings  of  a  snowshoe, 
Houston,  pointing  with  his  head,  gave  the  Indian 
his  directions. 

"A  woman  is  sick  in  a  cabin,  two  miles  straight 
west  from  here.  Get  Ba'tiste  Renaud  and  take 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  243 

him  there.  Turn  away  from  the  stream  at  a  tall, 
dead  lodgepole  and  go  to  the  left.  You  will  see 
the  cabin.  I  would  rather  that  you  would  not  go 
in  and  that  you  know  nothing  about  the  woman. 
Tell  Ba'tiste  that  her  name  must  stay  a  secret  until 
she  herself  is  willing  that  it  be  otherwise.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"A'ri."  The  Indian  went  then  toward  his  mis- 
tress, waiting  her  sanction  to  the  mission.  She 
looked  at  Barry  Houston. 

"Have  you  given  him  his  directions?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,  Lost  Wing,  do  as  he  has  told  you." 

The  Sioux  started  on,  soon  to  be  engulfed  in 
the  swirling  veil  of  the  storm.  Barry  turned  again 
to  the  girl. 

"Just  one  more  request:  I  can't  carry  the 
diild  up  there — this  way.  Will  you  help  strap  her 
to  my  pack?" 

Silently  she  assisted  him  in  the  grim  task  of 
mercy.  Then: 

"Do  you  know  the  Pass?" 

"I  can  find  my  way." 

"Do  you  know  it?" 

He  shook  his  head.  She  tapped  one  glove 
against  the  other. 

"It  is  impossible  then.     You — " 

"I'll  make  it  some  way.  Thank  you — for  help- 
ing me." 

He  started  on.    But  she  called  him  back. 

"It's  dangerous — too  dangerous,"  and  there  was 


244  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

a  note  of  pity  in  her  voice.  "It's  bad  enough  on 
foot  when  there's  no  snow — if  you're  not  familiar 
with  it.  I—" 

"Tell  me  the  way.  Perhaps  I  could  find  it. 
It's  not  for  myself.  I  made  a  promise  to  the 
child's  mother.  I'm  afraid  she's  dying." 

A  new  light  came  into  the  girl's  eyes,  a  light  of 
compassion,  of  utmost  pity, — the  pity  that  one  can 
feel  for  some  one  who  has  transgressed,  some  one 
who  faces  the  penalty,  who  feels  the  lash  of  the 
whip,  yet  does  not  cry  out.  Slowly  she  came  to- 
ward Houston,  then  bent  to  tighten  the  fastenings 
of  her  snowshoes. 

"I  know  the  way,"  came  quietly.  "I  have  been 
over  it — in  summer  and  winter.  I  will  show  you." 

"You!  Medaine!  I— I— beg  pardon."  The 
outburst  had  passed  his  lips  almost  before  he  real- 
ized it.  "Miss  Robinette,  you  don't  know  what 
you're  saying.  It's  all  a  man  could  do  to  make 
that  climb.  I—" 

"I  know  the  way,"  she  answered,  without  in- 
dicating that  she  had  heard  his  remonstrance, 
am  glad  to  go — for  the  sake  of — "     She  nodded 
slightly  toward  the  tenderly  wrapped  bundle  on 
the  pack.     "I  would  not  feel  right  otherwise." 

"But—" 

Then  she  faced  him. 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  came  with  a  quiet  assurance 
that  spoke  more  than  words.  It  told  Barry 
Houston  that  this  little  woman  of  the  hills  was 
willing  to  help  him,  although  she  loathed  him;  that 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  245 

she  was  willing  to  undergo  hardships,  to  quell  her 
own  dislike  for  the  man  she  aided  that  she  might 
give  him  assistance  in  a  time  of  death.  And  he 
thrilled  with  it,  in  spite  of  the  false  beliefs  that  he 
knew  existed  in  the  mind  of  Medaine  Robinette. 
It  gave  him  a  pride  in  her, — even  though  he  knew 
this  pride  to  be  gained  at  the  loss  of  his  own  pres- 
tige. And  more  than  all,  it  made  him  glad  that  he 
had  played  the  man  back  there  in  the  little,  lonely 
cabin,  where  lay  a  sorrow-crazed  woman,  grieving 
for  a  child  who  was  gone ;  that  he  too  had  been  big 
enough  and  strong  enough  to  forget  the  past  in  the 
exigencies  of  the  moment ;  that  he  had  aided  where 
he  might  have  hindered ;  that  he  had  soothed  where 
a  lesser  nature  might  have  stormed.  He  bowed 
Jiis^head  in  acknowledgment  of  her  announce- 
ment. Then,  side  by  side,  affixing  the  stout  cord 
that  was  to  form  a  bond  of  safety  between  two 
alien  souls,  they  started  forth,  a  man  who  had  been 
accused,  but  who  was  strong  enough  to  rise  above 
it,  and  a  woman  whose  woman-heart  had  dictated 
that  dislike,  distrust,  even  physical  fear  be  sub- 
jugated to  the  greater,  nobler  purpose  of  human 
charity. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Silence  was  their  portion  as  they  turned  toward 
the  mountains.  There  was  little  to  say.  Now 
and  then  as  Houston,  in  the  lead,  got  off  the  trail, 
Medaine  jerked  on  the  cord  to  draw  his  attention, 
then  pointed,  and  Barry  obeyed.  Thus  their  pil- 
grimage progressed. 

An  hour  found  them  in  the  hills,  plodding 
steadily  upward,  following  the  smoother  mounds 
of  snow  which  indicated  heavy,  secure  drifts,  at 
times  progressing  easily,  almost  swiftly,  at  others 
veering  and  tacking,  making  the  precipitous  ascent 
by  digging  their  shoes  into  the  snow  and  literally 
pulling  themselves  up,  step  by  step.  Here,  where 
the  crags  rose  about  them,  where  sheer  granite 
walls,  too  steep,  too  barren  to  form  a  resting  place 
even  for  the  driven  snow,  rose  brown  and  gaunt 
above  them,  where  the  wind  seemed  to  shriek  at 
them  from  a  hundred  places  at  once,  Houston 
dropped  slowly  back  to  watch  the  effect  that  it  all 
was  having  upon  the  girl,  to  study  her  strength  and 
her  ability  to  go  on.  But  there  was  no  weakening 
in  the  sturdy  little  step,  no  evidence  of  fatigue. 
As  they  went  higher,  and  the  wind  beat  against 
them  with  its  hail  of  splintered  ice  particles,  Hous- 
ton saw  her  heavily  gloved  hands  go  to  her  face  in 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  247 

sudden  pain  and  remain  there.  The  man  went  to 
her  side,  and  grasping  her  by  the  shoulder,  stopped 
her.  Then,  without  explanation,  he  brought  forth 
a  heavy  bandanna  handkerchief  and  tied  it  about 
her  features,  as  high  as  possible  without  shutting 
off  the  sight.  Her  eyes  thanked  him.  They  went 
on. 

Higher — higher!  the  old  cracks  of  Houston's 
lips,  formed  in  his  days  of  wandering,  opened  and 
began  to  bleed,  the  tiny,  red  drops  falling  on  his 
clothing  and  congealing  there.  The  flying  ice  cut 
his  skin;  he  knew  that  his  eyeballs  were  becoming 
red  again,  the  blood-red  where  never  a  speck  of 
white  showed,  only  black  pupils  staring  forth  from 
tf  sea  of  carmine.  Harder  and  swifter  the  wind 
swept  about  them ;  its  force  greater  than  the  slight 
form  of  the  woman  could  resist.  Close  went 
Houston  to  her;  his  arm  encircled  her — and  she  did 
not  resist — she  who,  down  there  in  the  west  coun- 
try in  the  days  that  had  gone,  would  have  rebelled 
at  the  touch  of  his  hand!  But  now  they  were  in  a 
strange  land  where  personalities  had  vanished; 
two  beings  equipped  with  human  intelligence  and 
the  power  of  locomotion,  little  more.  All  else  in 
their  natures  had  become  subjugated  to  the  greater 
tasks  which  faced  them;  the  primitive  had  come  to 
life;  they  were  fighting  against  every  vengeful 
weapon  which  an  outraged  Nature  could  hurl, — 
fighting  at  cross-purposes,  he  to  fulfill  a  promise  to 
a  woman  who  might  even  now  be  dead,  she  to 
assuage  the  promptings  of  a  merciful  nature,  even 


248  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

to  the  extent  of  the  companionship  of  a  man  she 
had  been  led  to  revile. 

Afternoon  came,  and  the  welcome  shelter  of  a 
ledge  where  the  snow  had  drifted  far  outward, 
leaving  a  small  space  of  dry  rock, — to  them  like 
an  island  to  a  drifting  victim  of  shipwreck. 
There  they  stopped,  to  bring  food  from  the  small 
provision  pack  which  had  been  shifted  to  Me- 
daine's  shoulders,  to  eat  silently,  then,  without  a 
word,  to  rise  and  go  onward. 

Miles  and  miles, — rods  in  fact.  Aeons  of  space 
after  that,  in  which  huddled,  bent  figures  in  the 
grip  of  stormdom,  climbed,  veering,  swinging  about 
'the  easier  stretches,  crawling1  at  painfully  slow 
pace  up  the  steeper  inclines.  Upward  through 
the  stinging  blast  of  the  tempest  they  went,  to- 
ward the  top  of  a  stricken  world.  Late  afternoon; 
then  Medaine  turned  toward  the  bleeding  man  be- 
side her. 

"A  mile  more." 

She  said  no  more.  He  nodded  in  answer  and 
extended  a  hand  to  aid  her  over  a  slippery  stretch 
of  ice-coated  granite.  Timber  line  came  and  went. 
The  snowfall  ceased,  to  give  way  to  the  grayness 
of  heavy,  scudding  clouds  and  the  spasmodic  flur- 
ries of  driving  white,  as  the  gusty  wind  caught  up 
the  loose  fall  of  the  drifts  and  whirled  it  on,  like 
harassed,  lost  souls  seeking  in  vain  a  place  they 
could  abide.  And  it  was  in  one  of  the  moments  of 
quiet  that  Medaine  pointed  above. 

Five  splotches  showed  on  the  mountain  side,— 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  249 

the  roofs  of  as  many  cabins ;  the  rest  of  them  were 
buried  in  snow.  No  smoke  came  from  the  slant- 
ing chimneys;  no  avenues  were  shoveled  to  the 
doorways ;  the  drifts  were  unbroken. 

"Gone!"     Houston  voiced  the  monosyllable. 

"Yes.  Probably  on  to  Crestline,  I  was  afraid 
of  it." 

"Night's  coming." 

"It's  too  late  to  turn  back  now." 

And  in  spite  of  the  pain  of  bleeding,  snow- 
burned  lips,  Houston  smiled  at  her, — the  smile 
that  a  man  might  give  a  sister  of  whom  he  was  in- 
ordinately proud. 

"Are  you  afraid?" 

"Of  what?" 

"Me." 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.     Then: 

"Are  you  afraid — of  yourself?" 

"No.  Only  men  with  something  on  their  con- 
science are  afraid." 

She  looked  at  him  queerly,  then  turned  away. 
jHouston  again  ftook  the  lead,  rounding  the 
stretches,  then  waiting  for  her,  halting  at  the  dan- 
gerous gulleys  and  guiding  her  safely  across,  but 
silently.  He  had  said  enough;  more  would  re- 
quire explanations.  And  there  was  a  pack  upon 
his  back  which  contained  a  tiny  form  with  tight- 
curled  hands,  with  eyes  that  were  closed, — a  poor, 
nameless  little  thing  he  had  sworn  to  carry  to  grace 
and  to  protection.  At  last  they  reached  the  cabins. 
Houston  untied  the  bond  which  connected  them 


250  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

and  loosened  his  snowshoes,  that  he  might  plunge 
into  the  smallest  drift  before  a  door  and  force  his 
way  within.  There  was  no  wood ;  he  tore  the  clap- 
boards from  a  near-by  cabin  and  the  tar  paper 
from  the  wind-swept  roof.  Five  minutes  later  a 
fire  was  booming;  a  girl  tired,  bent-shouldered,  her 
eyes  drooping  from  a  sudden  desire  for  sleep, 
huddled  near  it.  Houston  walked  to  the  pack  and 
took  food. 

"You  would  rather  eat  alone?" 

"Yes." 

"I  shall  be  in  the  next  cabin — awake." 

"Awake?" 

"Yes.     I'd  rather— keep  watch." 

"But  there  is  nothing—' 

"Illness — a  snowslide — a  fresh  drift.  I  would 
feel  easier  in  mind.  Good  night." 

Then  with  his  snowshoes  and  his  pack  of  death, 
he  went  out  the  door,  to  plunge  through  another 
drift,  to  force  his  way  into  a  cabin,  and  there,  a 
plodding,  dumb  figure,  go  soddenly  about  the  duties 
of  comfort.  And  more  than  once  in  the  howl- 
ing, blustery  night  which  followed,  Houston 
shivered,  shook  himself  into  action  and  rose  to  re- 
build a  fire  that  had  died  while  he  had  sat  hunched 
in  the  hard,  uncomfortable  chair  beside  it,  trying  to 
fathom  what  the  day  had  meant,  striving  to  hope 
for  the  keeping  of  the  promises  that  an  hysterical 
woman  had  made,  struggling  for  the  strength  to 
go  on, — on  with  this  cheery,  brave  little  bit  of 
humanity  in  the  next  cabin,  without  a  word  in  self- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  251 

extenuation,  without  a  hint  to  break  the  lack  of 
estimation  in  which  she  held  him,  without  a  plea 
in  his  own  defense.  And  some  way,  Houston  felt 
that  such  a  plea  now  would  be  cheap  and  tawdry ; 
they  were  in  a  world  where  there  were  bigger 
things  than  human  aims  and  human  frailties. 
Besides,  he  had  locked  his  lips  at  the  command  of  a 
grief-ridden  woman.  To  open  them  in  self-exten- 
uation would  mean  that  she  must  be  brought  into 
it;  for  she  had  been  the  one  who  had  clinched  the 
points  of  suspicion  in  the  mind  of  Medaine  Robin- 
ette*  Were  he  now  to  speak  of  proof  that  she  had 
lied— 

It  was  impossible.  The  wind-swept  night 
became  wind-swept  dawn,  to  find  him  still 
huddled  there,  still  thinking,  still  grim  and  drawn 
and  haggard  with  sleeplessness  and  fatigue.  Then 
he  rose  at  a  call  from  without : 

"Are  you  ready?" 

He  affixed  the  pack.  Together  they  went  on 
again,  graceless  figures  in  frozen  clothing,  she 
pointing  the  way,  he  aiding  her  with  his  strength, 
in  the  final  battle  toward  the  summit  of  the  range, 
— and  Crestline. 

Hours  they  plodded  and  climbed,  climbed  and 
plodded,  the  blood  again  dripping  from  his  lips, 
her  features  again  shielded  by  the  heavy  folds  of 
the  bandanna ;  the  moisture  of  their  breath  at  times 
swirling  about  them  like  angry  steam,  at  others  in- 
visible in  the  areas  of  sudden  dryness,  where  the 
atmosphere  lapped  up  even  the  vapors  of  laboring 


252  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

lungs  before  it  could  visualize.  Snow  and  cloud 
and  rising  walls  of  granite:  this  was  their  world, 
and  they  crawling  pigmies  within  it.  Once  she 
brushed  against  the  pack  on  his  back  and  drew 
away  with  a  sudden  recoil.  Houston  dully  re- 
alized the  reason.  The  selfish,  gripping  hands  of 
Winter,  holding  nothing  sacred,  had  invaded  even 
there. 

Noon.  And  a  half -cry  from  both  of  them,  a 
burst  of  energy  which  soon  faded.  For  above  was 
Crestline — even  as  the  little  Croatian  settlement 
had  been — smokeless,  lifeless.  They  had  gone 
from  here  also,  hurrying  humans  fleeing  with  the 
last  snowplow  before  the  tempest,  beings  afraid  to 
remain,  once  the  lines  of  communication  were 
broken.  But  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  go  on. 

Roofless  houses  met  them,  stacks  of  crumpled 
snow,  where  the  beams  had  cracked  beneath  the 
weight  of  high  piled  drifts;  staring,  glassless  win- 
dows and  rooms  filled  with  white;  stoves  that  no 
longer  fought  the  clasp  of  winter  but  huddled  in- 
stead amid  piles  of  snow;  that  was  all.  Crestline 
had  fled;  there  was  no  life,  no  sound,  only  the  an- 
gry, wailing  cry  of  the  wind  through  half -frozen 
roof  spouts,  the  slap  of  clattering  boards,  loosened 
by  the  storm.  Gloomily  Houston  surveyed  the 
desolate  picture,  at  last  to  turn  to  the  girl. 

"I  must  go  on.     I  gave  my  promise." 

She  nodded. 

"It  means  Tollifer  now.  The  descent  is  more 
dangerous." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  253 

"Do  you  know  it?" 

"Not  as  well  as  the  other.  If  I  only  had  some- 
thing to  guide  me." 

And  as  if  in  answer,  the  storm  lifted  for  a  mo- 
ment. Gradually  the  wind  stilled,  in  one  of  those 
stretches  of  calm  which  seem  to  be  only  the  breed- 
ing spots  of  more  terror,  more  bitterness.  But 
they  gave  no  heed  to  that,  nor  to  the  red  ball  of  the 
sun,  faintly  visible  through  the  clouds.  Far  be- 
low, miles  in  reality,  straight  jets  of  steam  rose 
high  above  black,  curling  smoke;  faintly,  distantly, 
whistles  sounded.  The  snowplows! 

He  gripped  her  arm  with  the  sight  of  it,  nor  did 
she  resist.  Thrilled,  enthralled,  they  watched  it: 
the  whirling  smoke,  the  shooting  steam,  the  white 
spray  which  indicated  the  grinding,  churning  prog- 
ress of  the  plows,  propelled  by  the  heavy  engines 
behind.  Words  came  from  the  swollen  lips  of 
Houston,  but  the  voice  was  hoarse,  strained,  un- 
natural : 

"They've  started  the  fight!     They've— 

"It's  on  the  second  grade,  up  from  Tollifer. 
It's  fairly  easy  there,  you  know,  for  ten  or  twelve 
miles.  They're  making  that  without  difficulty — 
their  work  won't  come  until  they  strike  the  snow- 
sheds  at  Crystal  Lake.  Oh — "  and  there  was  in 
the  voice  all  the  yearning,  the  anxiety  that  a  pent- 
up  soul  could  know —  "I  wish  I  were  a  man  nowl 
I  wish  I  were  a  man — to  help!" 

"I  hope — "  and  Houston  said  it  without  thought 
of  bravado —  "that  I  may  have  the  strength  for 


254  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

both  of  us.     I'm  a  man — after  a  sort.     I'm  going 
to  work  with  them." 

"But— " 

He  knew  what  she  meant  and  shook  his  head. 

"No — she  does  not  need  me.  My  presence 
would  mean  nothing  to  her.  I  can't  tell  you  why. 
My  place — is  down  there." 

For  an  instant  Medaine  Robinette  looked  at  him 
with  frankly  questioning  eyes,  eyes  which  told 
that  a  thought  was  beginning  to  form  somewhere 
back  in  her  brain,  a  question  arising  as  to  his  guilt 
in  at  least  one  of  the  things  which  circumstances 
had  arrayed  against  him.  Some  way  Barry  felt 
that  she  knew  that  a  man  willing  to  encounter  the 
dangers  of  a  snowy  range  would  hurry  again  to  the 
side  of  the  woman  for  whom  he  had  dared  them,  un- 
less—  But  suddenly  she  was  speaking,  as  though 
to  divert  her  thoughts. 

"We'll  have  about  three  hours — from  the  looks 
of  the  sky.  Unless  conditions  change  quickly, 
there'll  not  be  another  blow  before  night.  It's  our 
chance.  We'd  better  cut  this  cord — the  one  in  the 
lead  may  fall  and  pull  the  other  one  over.  We 
had  better  make  haste." 

Houston  stepped  before  her.  A  moment  later 
they  were  edging  their  way  down  the  declivity  of 
what  once  had  been  a  railroad  track,  at  last  to  veer. 
The  drifts  from  the  mountain  side  had  become  too 
sharp;  it  was  easier  to  accept  the  more  precipitous 
and  shorter  journey,  straight  downward,  the  nearest 
cut  toward  those  welcome  spires  of  smoke. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  255 

Gradually  the  snow  shook  or  was  melted  from 
their  clothing',  through  sheer)  bodily  warmth. 
Black  dots  they  became, — dots  which  appeared  late 
in  the  afternoon  to  the  laboring  crews  of  the  snow- 
fighters  far  below;  dots  which  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared, edging  their  way  about  beetling  preci- 
pices, plunging  forward,  then  stopping;  pulling 
themselves  out  of  the  heavier  drifts,  where  drops 
of  ten  and  even  twenty  feet  had  thrown  them; 
swinging  and  tacking;  scrambling  downward  in. 
long,  almost  running  descents,  then  crawling 
slowly  along  the  ice  walls,  while  the  jutting  peaks 
about  them  seemed  to  close  them  in,  seemed  to 
threaten  and  seek  to  engulf  them  in  their  pitfalls, 
only  to  break  from  them  at  last  and  allow  them 
once  more  to  resume  their  journey. 

Breaks  and  stops,  falls  and  plunges  into  drift 
after  drift;  through  the  glasses  the  workers  below 
could  see  that  a  man  was  in  the  lead,  with  some- 
thing strapped  to  his  back,  which  the  woman  in  the 
rear  adjusted  now  and  then,  when  it  became  par- 
tially displaced  by  the  plunging  journey.  Banks 
of  snow  cut  them  off;  snowshoes  sank  in  air  pockets 
— holes  made  by  protruding  limbs  of  the  short, 
gnarled  trees  of  timber  line, — and  through  these 
the  man  fought  in  short,  spasmodic  lunges,  break- 
ing the  way  for  the  woman  who  came  behind, 
never  stopping  except  to  gather  strength  for  a 
fresh  attack,  never  ceasing  for  obstacle  or  for  dan- 
ger. Once,  at  the  edge  of  an  overhanging  ledge, 
he  scrambled  furiously,  failed  and  fell, — to  drop  in 


256  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

a  drift  far  below,  to  crawl  painfully  back  to  the 
waiting  dot  above,  and  to  guide  her,  by  safer  paths, 
on  downward.  Hours!  The  dots  grew  larger. 
The  glasses  no  longer  were  needed.  On  they 
came,  stumbling,  reeling,  at  last  to  stagger  across 
the  frozen,  wind-swept  surface  of  a  small  lake  and 
toward  the  bunk  cars  of  the  snow  crews.  The 
woman  wavered  and  fell;  he  caught  her.  Then 
double-weighted,  a  pack  on  his  back,  a  form  in  his 
arms,  he  came  on,  his  blood-red  eyes  searching  al- 
most sightlessly  the  faces  of  the  waiting,  stolid, 
grease-smeared  men,  his  thick  voice  drooling  over 
bloody  lips: 

"Somebody  take  her — get  her  into  the  bunk 
cars.  She's  given  out.  I'm —  I'm  all  right. 
Take  care  of  her.  I've  got  to  go  on — to  Tollifer!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

It  was  night  when  Barry  Houston  limped,  mus- 
cles cramped  and  frost-numbed,  into  the  little 
undertaking  shop  at  Tollifer  and  deposited  his 
tiny  burden.  Medaine  Robinette  had  remained 
behind  in  the  rough  care  of  the  snow  crews,  while 
he,  revived  by  steaming  coffee  and  hot  food,  had 
been  brought  down  on  a  smaller  snowplow,  run- 
ning constantly,  and  without  extra  power,  between 
Tollifer  and  "the  front",  that  the  lines  of  commu- 
nication be  kept  open. 

"Nameless,"  he  said  with  an  effort,  when  the 
lengthy  details  of  certification  were  asked.  "The 
mother — "  and  a  necessary  lie  came  to  his  lips — • 
"became  unconscious  before  she  could  tell  me  any- 
thing except  that  the  baby  had  been  baptized  and 
called  Helena.  She  wanted  a  priest." 

"I'll  look  after  it.     There's  clothing?" 

"Yes.  In  the  pack.  But  wait — where  does  the 
Father  live?" 

The  man  pointed  the  way.  Houston  went  on 
— to  a  repetition  of  his  story  and  a  fulfillment  of 
his  duties.  Then,  from  far  up  the  mountain  side, 
there  came  the  churning,  grinding  sound  of  the 
snowplow,  and  he  hurried  toward  the  station  house 
to  greet  it.  There  on  a  spur,  in  the  faint  glow  of 
an  electric  light,  a  short  train  was  side-tracked, 


258  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

engineless,  waiting  until  the  time  should  come 
when  the  road  again  would  be  open,  and  the  way 
over  the  Pass  free.  One  glance  told  him  what  it 
was:  the  tarpaulin-covered,  snow-shielded,  bulky 
forms  of  his  machinery, — machinery  that  he  now 
felt  he  could  personally  aid  to  its  destination.  For 
there  was  work  ahead.  Midnight  found  him  in  a 
shack  buried  in  snow  and  reached  only  by  a  circu- 
itous tunnel,  a  shack  where  men — no  longer 
Americans,  but  black-smeared,  red-eyed,  dodder- 
ing, stumbling  human  machines — came  and  went, 
their  frost-caked  Mackinaws  steaming  as  they 
clustered  about  the  red-hot  stove,  their  faces 
smudged  with  engine  grease  to  form  a  coating 
against  the  stinging  blast  of  the  ice-laden  wind, 
their  cheeks  raw  and  bleeding,  their  mouths  swollen 
orifices  which  parted  only  for  mumblings:  vikings 
of  another  age,  the  fighters  of  the  ice  gangs,  of 
which  Houston  had  become  a  part. 

The  floor  was  their  bed;  silently,  speaking  only 
for  the  purpose  of  curses,  they  gulped  the  food 
that  was  passed  out  to  them,  taking  the  steaming 
coffee  straight  down  in  spite  of  its  burning  clutch 
at  tender  membranes,  gnawing  and  tearing  at  their 
meal  like  beasts  at  the  kill,  then,  still  wadded  in 
their  clothing,  sinking  to  the  floor — and  to  sleep. 
The  air  was  rancid  with  the  odor  of  wet,  steaming 
clothing.  Men  crawled  over  one  another,  then 
dropped  to  the  first  open  spot,  to  flounder  there  a 
moment,  then  roar  in  snoring  sleep.  Against  the 
wall  a  bearded  giant  half  leaned,  half  lay,  one  tooth 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  259 

touching  the  ragged  lips  and  breaking  the  filmy 
skin,  while  the  blood  dripped,  slow  drop  after  slow 
drop,  upon  his  black,  tousled  beard.  But  he  did  not 
wake. 

Of  them  all,  only  Houston,  tired  even  as  they 
were  tired,  yet  with  something  that  they  had  for- 
gotten, a  brain,  remained  open-eyed.  What  had 
become  of  Medaine?  Had  she  recovered?  Had 
she  too  gone  to  Tollifer,  perhaps  on  a  later  trip  of 
the  plow?  The  thoughts  ran  through  his  head  like 
the  repetition  of  some  weird  refrain.  He  sought 
sleep  in  vain.  From  far  away  came  the  whistles  of 
locomotives,  answering  the  signals  of  the  snow- 
plows  ahead.  Outside  some  one  shouted,  as  though 
calling  to  him;  again  he  remembered  the  bulky 
cars  of  machinery  at  Tollifer.  It  was  partially, 
at  least,  his  battle  they  were  fighting  out  there, 
while  he  remained  inactive.  He  rose  and  sought 
the  door,  fumbling  aimlessly  in  his  pockets  for  his 
gloves.  Something  tinkled  on  the  floor  as  he 
brought  them  forth,  and  he  bent  to  pick  up  the  lit- 
tle crucifix  with  its  twisted,  tangled  chain,  for- 
gotten at  Tollifer.  Dully,  hazily,  he  stared  at  it 
with  his  red  eyes,  with  the  faint  feeling  of  a  duty 
neglected.  Then : 

"She  only  said  they  might  want  it,"  he  mumbled. 
"I'm  sorry — I  should  have  remembered.  I'm  al- 
ways failing — at  something." 

Then,  dully  anxious  to  do  his  part,  to  take  his 
place  in  the  fighting  line,  he  replaced  the  tiny  bit  of 
gold  in  his  pocket,  and  threading  his  way  through 


260  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

the  circuitous  tunnel  of  snow,  stepped  forth  into 
the  night. 

It  was  one  of  those  brief  spaces  of  starlight  be- 
tween storms,  and  the  crews  were  making  the  most 
of  it.  The  wind  had  ceased  temporarily,  allowing 
every  possible  workman  to  be  pulled  from  the 
ordinary  task  of  keeping  the  tracks  clear  of  the 
"pick-ups"  of  the  wind,  blowing  the  snow  down 
from  the  drifts  of  the  hill,  and  to  be  concentrated 
upon  the  primary  task  of  many, — the  clearing  of 
the  packed  siftings  which  filled  the  first  snowshed. 

Atop  the  oblong  shed,  swept  clear  by  the  wind, 
a  light  was  signalling,  telling  the  progress  of  the 
plow,  and  its  consequent  engines,  within.  Even 
from  the  distance,  Barry  could  hear  the  surge  of 
the  terrific  impact,  as  the  rotary,  pushed  by  the 
four  tremendous  "compounds"  and  Malletts  which 
formed  its  additional  motive  power,  smashed 
against  the  tight- jammed  contents  of  the  shed, 
snarled  and  tore  at  its  enemy,  then,  beaten  at  last  by 
the  crusted  ice  of  the  rails,  came  grudgingly  back, 
that  the  ice  crews,  with  their  axes  and  bars,  might 
break  the  crystallization  from  the  rails  and  give 
traction  for  another  assault.  Houston  started 
forward,  only  to  stop.  A  figure  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  cook  car  had  caught  his  eye.  Medaine  Rob- 
inette. 

She  was  helping  with  the  preparation  of  the 
midnight  meal  for  the  laborers,  hurrying  from  the 
steaming  cauldrons  to  the  benches  and  baskets, 
filling  the  big  pots  with  coffee,  arranging  the  tin 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  261 

cups  in  their  stacks  for  the  various  crews,  and  do- 
ing something  that  Houston  knew  was  of  more 
value  than  anything  else, — bringing  a  smile  to  the 
tired  men  who  labored  beside  her.  And  this  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  black  rings  of  fatigue  were 
about  her  eyes,  that  the  pretty,  smoothly  rounded 
features  had  the  suggestion  of  drawnness,  that  the 
lips,  when  they  ceased  to  move,  settled  into  the 
slightest  bit  of  a  droop.  Now  and  then  she  stopped 
by  one  of  the  tables  and  clung  to  it,  as  though  for 
support, — only  to  perk  her  head  with  a  sudden 
little  motion  of  determination,  to  turn,  and  then 
with  a  laugh  go  on  with  her  work.  Presently  he 
heard  her  singing  above  the  clatter  of  kitchenware 
and  the  scuffling  of  the  men  with  their  heavy,  hob- 
nailed shoes.  And  he  knew  that  it  was  a  song  of 
the  lips,  not  of  the  heart,  that  she  might  lighten 
the  burden  of  others  in  forgetfulness  of  self. 

And  as  he  watched  her,  Houston  knew  for  all 
time  that  he  loved  her,  that  he  wanted  her  above 
all  things,  in  spite  of  what  she  had  been  led  to  be- 
lieve of  him,  in  spite  of  everything.  His  hands 
extended,  as  though  to  reach  toward  her, — the  ach- 
ing appeal  of  a  lonely,  harassed  man,  striving  for  a 
thing  he  could  not  touch.  Then  hope  surged 
in  his  heart. 

If  the  woman  back  there  in  the  west  country 
only  would  tell!  If  she  would  only  keep  the 
promise  which  she  had  given  him  in  her  half -de- 
lirium! It  meant  the  world  to  Barry  Houston 
now, — something  far  greater  even  than  the  success 


262  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

for  which  he  had  struggled;  she  could  tell  so  much! 

For  Houston  felt  that  Agnes  Jierdon  knew  the 
details  of  practically  every  conspiracy  that  had  been 
fashioned  against  him;  the  substitution  of  the 
lease  and  contract  in  the  pile  of  technical  papers 
which  he  had  signed,  the  false  story  which  she  had 
told  to  Medaine, — suddenly  Barry  wondered  if  she 
really  had  passed  the  scene  of  his  struggle  with 
Tom  Langdon,  if  she  had  seen  anything  at  all;  if 
her  whole  testimony  had  not  been  a  manufactured 
thing,  built  merely  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining 
his  utmost  confidence.  If  she  only  would  tell!  If 
she  only  would  stay  by  her  promise  to  a  man  who 
had  kept  his  promise  to  her!  If — 

But  a  call  had  come  from  up  the  line.  The 
whistles  no  longer  were  tooting;  instead,  they  were 
blowing  with  long  foghorn  blasts,  an  eerie  sound  in 
the  cold,  crisp  night, — a  sound  of  foreboding,  of 
danger.  A  dim  figure  made  its  appearance,  run- 
ning along  the  box  cars,  at  last  to  sight  Houston  and 
come  toward  him. 

"Which  car  does  the  engine  crews  sleep  in?" 
came  sharply. 

Houston  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know.     Has  something  gone  wrong?" 

"Plenty.  Both  the  firemen  on  Number  Six  have 
went  out  from  gas — in  the  snowshed.  We've 
picked  up  a  guy  out  of  an  ice  gang  that's  willin' 
to  stand  th'  gaff,  but  we  need  another  one.  Guess 
there  ain't  nothin'  to  do  but  wake  up  one  of  th' 
day  crew.  Hate  t'  do  it,  though — they're  all  in." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  263 

"Don't,  then.     I'll  make  a  try  at  it." 

"Know  anything  about  firm'  an  engine?" 

"I  know  enough  to  shovel  coal — and  I've  got  a 
strong  pair  of  shoulders." 

"Come  on,  then." 

Houston  followed  the  figure  toward  the  snow- 
shed  on  the  hill.  Ten  minutes  later  he  stood  be- 
side a  great  Mallet  engine,  a  sleek,  glistening  gray- 
hound  of  the  mountains,  taking  from  the  super- 
intendent the  instructions  that  would  enable  him 
to  assist,  at  least,  in  the  propulsion  of  the  motive 
power.  At  the  narrow  areaway  between  the  track 
and  the  high  wall  of  the  straightaway  drifts  through 
which  the  plow  had  cut,  four  men  were  lifting 
a  limp  figure,  to  carry  it  to  the  cars.  The  super- 
intendent growled. 

"You  payin'  attention  to  me — or  that  guy 
they're  cartin'  off?  When  you  get  in  them  gas 
pockets,  stick  your  nose  in  the  hollow  of  your  elbow 
and  keep  it  there  'till  you've  got  your  breath  again. 
There  ain't  no  fresh  air  in  that  there  shed;  the 
minute  these  engines  get  inside  and  start  throwin' 
on  the  juice,  it  fills  up  with  smoke.  That's  what 
gets  you.  Hold  your  nose  in  your  arm  while  you 
take  your  breath.  Then,  if  you've  got  to  shovel, 
keep  your  mouth  and  your  lungs  shut.  Got  me?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Then  go  to  it.     Hey,  Andy!" 

"Yeh."     A  voice  had  come  from  the  engine  cab. 

"Here's  a  guy  that'll  swing  a  shovel.  I've  told 
him  about  the  gas." 


264  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

Barry  climbed  to  his  place  on  the  engine.  A 
whistle  sounded,  to  be  echoed  and  reechoed  by  the 
answering  blasts  of  the  snowplow  train — four  en- 
gines and  the  big  auger  itself — ready  now  for  a 
fresh  sally  into  the  shed.  Headlights,  extinguished 
momentarily,  were  thrown  on  again,  lighting  up 
the  dirty,  ragged  edges  of  the  snow  walls,  with 
their  black  marks  of  engine  soot;  throwing  into 
sharp  relief  the  smudge-faced  figures  of  the  pick- 
and-axe  crews  just  emerging  from  the  black  maw 
of  the  tunnel;  playing  upon  the  smooth,  white  out- 
lines of  the  forbidding  mountains  yet  beyond, 
mountains  which  still  must  be  conquered  ere  the 
top  of  the  world  was  reached.  Ahead  came  the 
"high-ball"  signal  from  the  plow;  two  sharp  blasts, 
to  be  repeated  by  the  first,  the  second,  the  third  and 
fourth  of  the  engines.  Then,  throttles  open,  fire 
boxes  throwing  their  red,  spluttering  glare  against 
the  black  sky  as  firemen  leaped  to  their  task,  the 
great  mass  of  machinery  moved  forward. 

Faster — faster — then  the  impact,  like  crashing 
into  a  stone  wall.  They  were  within  the  snowshed 
now,  the  auger  boring  and  tearing  and  snarling 
like  some  savage,  vengeful  thing  against  the  solid 
mass  of  frigidity  which  faced  it.  Inch  by  inch  for 
eight  feet  it  progressed;  the  offal  of  the  big  blades 
flying  past  in  the  glare  of  the  headlights  like  swirl- 
ing rainbows ;  then  progress  ceased,  while  the  plow 
ahead,  answered  by  the  engines  which  backed  it, 
shrilled  the  triple  signal  to  back  up,  out  into  th< 
air  again,  that  the  ice  crews  might  hurry  to  thei] 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  265 

tasks.     The  engineer  opened  the  cab  window  and 
gratefully  sucked  in  the  fresh,  clean  air. 

"Eight  feet— that's  all,"  he  mused.  "Eight 
feet  at  a  time."  Then,  noticing  Houston's  atten- 
tion, he  went  on: 

"It's  all  the  big  screw  can  make.  Got  a  hood 
on  the  front,  you  know,  protecting  the  blades.  It's 
eight  feet  from  the  front  of  that  hood  to  the  first 
trucks.  When  it's  scooped  that  out,  it's  the  finish. 
The  wheels  hit  ice,  and  its  either  back  out  or 
get  derailed.  So  we  back.  Huh!  There  she 
goes  again.  Keep  your  nose  in  your  elbow,  young- 
ster, this  time.  We're  goin'  back  pretty  sudden. 
We'll  get  gas." 

The  screaming  of  the  whistles  faded,  giving  way 
to  the  lurching  of  steel  monsters  as  they  once  more 
crawled  within  the  blackness  of  the  smoke-filled, 
snow-choked  shed.  Deeper  they  went  and  deeper, 
the  shouts  from  without  fading  away,  the  hot,  pene- 
trating sulphur  smoke  seeping  in  even  through  the 
closed  cab,  blackening  it  until  the  electric  lights 
were  nothing  more  than  faint  pinpoints,  sending  the 
faces  of  the  men  to  their  arms,  while  the  two 
crouched,  waiting  anxiously  until  the  signal  should 
come  from  ahead. 

A  long,  long  moment,  while  the  smoke  cut  deeper 
into  protesting  lungs,  in  spite  of  every  effort  to 
evade  it,  while  Old  Andy  on  the  engine  seat 
twisted  and  writhed  with  the  agony  of  fading 
breath,  at  last  to  reel  from  his  position  and  stumble 
about  in  the  throes  of  suffocation.  At  last,  from 


266  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

ahead,  came  the  welcome  signal,  the  three  long- 
drawn-out  blasts,  and  the  engineer  waved  an  arm. 

"Pull  that  rope!"  he  gasped  toward  the  first  fire- 
man. "For  God's  sake,  pull  that  rope !  I'm  about 
gone." 

A  fumbling  hand  reached  up  and  missed;  the 
light  was  nearly  gone  now,  in  a  swirling  cloud  of 
venomous  smoke.  Again  the  old  engineer 
stumbled,  and  Houston,  leaping  to  his  side,  sup- 
ported him. 

"Find  that  rope—" 

"I  can't  see!     The  smoke—" 

Desperately  Houston  released  the  engineer  and 
climbed  upward,  groping.  Something  touched  his 
hand,  and  he  jerked  at  it.  A  blast  sounded — re- 
peated twice  more.  In  the  rear  the  signal  was 
answered.  Out  ground  the  train  to  freedom  again. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  a  night  of  an  Arctic  helL 

Back  and  forth — back  and  forth — fresh  air  and 
foul  air — gleaming  lights,  then  dense  blackness — 
so  the  hours  passed.  Sally  after  sally  the  snow- 
plow  made,  only  to  withdraw  to  give  way  to  the 
pick  crews,  and  they  in  turn,  gasping  and  reeling, 
hurried  out  for  the  attack  of  the  plow  again.  Men 
fell  grovelling,  only  to  be  dragged  into  the  open 
air  and  resuscitated,  then  sent  once  more  into  the 
cruelty  of  the  fight  The  hours  dragged  by  like 
stricken  things.  Then — with  dawn — the  plow 
churned  with  lesser  impact.  It  surged  forward. 
Gray  light  broke  through  at  the  end  of  the  tunnel. 
The  grip  of  at  least  one  snowshed  was  broken;  but 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  267 

there  remained  twenty  more — and  the  Death  Trail 
— beyond! 

"That's  the  baby  I'm  afraid  of!"  Old  Andy 
was  talking  as  they  went  toward  the  cars,  the  relief 
day  crew  passing  them  on  the  way.  "We  can 
whip  these  sheds.  But  that  there  Death  Trail— 
there's  a  million  tons  of  snow  above  it !  Once  that 
there  vibration  loosens  it  up — we'd  better  not  be 
underneath  it." 

Houston  did  not  answer.  The  clutch  of  forty- 
eight  hours  of  wakeful  activity  was  upon  him.  The 
words  of  Old  Andy  were  only  so  much  of  a  mean- 
ingless jumble  to  him.  Into  the  car  he  stumbled, 
a  doddering,  red-eyed  thing,  to  drink  his  coffee  as 
the  rest  drank  it,  to  shamble  to  the  stove,  forgetful 
of  the  steaming,  rancid  air,  then  like  some  tired 
beast,  sink  to  the  floor  in  exhausted,  dreamless 
sleep. 

Hours  he  remained  there,  while  the  day  crew 
carried  the  fight  on  upward,  through  three  of  the 
smaller  snowsheds,  at  last  to  halt  at  the  long,  curved 
affair  which  shielded  the  jutting  edge  of  Mount 
Taluchen.  Then  Houston  stirred;  some  one  had 
caught  him  by  the  shoulder  and  was  shaking  him 
gently.  A  voice  was  calling,  and  Houston  stirred, 
dazedly  obedient  to  its  command. 

"I  hate  to  awaken  you — "  It  was  a  woman;  her 
tones  compassionate,  gentle.  "But  they're  whis- 
tling for  the  night  crew.  They've  still  got  you  on 
the  list  for  firing." 

Houston  opened  his  eyes  and  forced  a  smile. 


268  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"That's  all  right.     Thanks— thanks  for  waking 


me." 


Then  he  rose  and  went  forth  into  the  agonies 
of  the  night, — willing,  eager,  almost  happy.  A 
few  words  from  a  woman  had  given  him  strength, 
had  wiped  out  fatigue  and  aching  muscles,  and 
cramped,  lifeless  limbs,' — a  few  words  from  a 
woman  he  loved,  Medaine  Robinette. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

It  was  a  repetition  of  the  first  night, — the  same 
churning  of  the  plows,  the  same  smaller  machines 
working  along  the  right  of  way  to  keep  the  rails 
clear  of  drifting  snow  and  ice  particles,  the  wind 
howling  again  and  carrying  the  offal  of  the  plows 
in  gigantic  spouts  of  dirty  white  high  into  the  air, 
to  lash  and  pulverize  it,  then  swish  it  away  to  the 
icy  valleys  beneath,  where  drifts  could  do  no  harm, 
where  there  were  no  struggling  crews  and  dogged, 
half-dead  men. 

A  repetition  of  the  foul-smelling  wooden 
tunnels,  the  sulphur  fumes,  the  gasping  of  stricken 
men.  The  same  long,  horrible  hours,  the  same 
staggering  release  from  labor  and  the  welcome  hard- 
ness of  a  sleeping  spot  on  a  wooden  floor.  Night 
after  night  it  was  the  same — starlight  and  snow, 
fair  weather  and  storm.  Barry  Houston  had  be- 
come a  rough-bearded,  tattered  piece  of  human 
machinery  like  all  the  rest.  Then,  at  last — 

The  sun !  Shining  faintly  through  the  windows 
of  the  bunk  car,  it  caused  him  to  stir  in  his  sleep. 
Dropping  in  a  flood  of  ruby  red,  it  still  reflected 
faint  streaks  of  color  across  the  sky,  when  at  last 
he  started  forth  to  what  men  had  mentioned  but  sel- 
dom, and  then  with  fear.  For  to-night  was  the  last 
night,  the  last  either  in  the  struggle  or  in  the  lives 


270  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

of  those  who  had  fought  their  way  upward  to  the 
final  barricade  which  yet  separated  them  from  the 
top^of  the  world,— the  Death  Trail. 

Smooth  and  sleek  it  showed  before  Houston  in 
the  early  moonlight,  an  icy  Niagara,  the  snow  piled 
high  above  the  railroad  tracks,  extending  upward 
s  gainst  an  almost  sheer  wall  of  granite,  in  stacks 
and  drifts,  banked  in  places  to  a  depth  of  a  hun- 
dred feet.  Already  the  plows  were  assembled, 
— four  heavy  steel  monsters,  with  tremendous 
beams  lashed  in  place  and  jutting  upward,  that  they 
might  break  the  overcasts  and  knock  down  the 
snow  roofings  that  otherwise  might  form  tunnels, 
breaking  the  way  above  as  the  tremendous  fan  of 
the  plow  would  break  it  below.  This  was  to  be  the 
fight  of  fights,  there  in  the  moonlight.  Houston 
could  see  the  engines  breathing  lazily  behind  their 
plows,  sixteen  great,  steel  contrivances,  their  bur- 
dens graduated  in  size  from  the  tremendous  auger 
at  the  fore  to  the  lesser,  almost  diminutive  one,  by 
comparison,  at  the  rear,  designed  to  take  the  last 
of  the  offal  from  the  track.  For  there  would  be 
no  ice  here;  the  drippings  of  the  snowsheds,  with 
their  accompanying  stalactites  and  stalagmites, 
were  absent.  A  quick  shoot  and  a  lucky  one. 
Otherwise, — the  men  who  went  forward  to  their 
engines  would  not  speak  of  it.  But  there  was  one 
who  did. 

She  was  standing  beside  the  cook  car  as  Houston 
passed,  and  she  looked  toward  him  with  a  glance 
that  caused  Barry  to  stop  and  to  wait,  as  though 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  271 

she  had  called  to  him.  Hesitatingly  she  came  for- 
ward, and  Houston's  dulled  mentality  at  last  took 
cognizance  that  a  hand  was  extended  slightly. 

"You're  still  working  on  the  engine?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you'll  be  with  them?" 

"On  the  Death  Trail?     I  expect  to." 

"They  talk  of  it  as  something  terrible.     Why?" 

Houston  pointed  to  the  forbidding  wall  of  snow. 
His  thick,  broken  lips  mumbled  in  the  longest 
speech  he  had  known  in  days. 

"It's  all  granite  up  there.  The  cut  of  the  road- 
bed forms  a  base  for  the  remainder  of  the  snow. 
It's  practically  all  resting  on  the  tracks;  above, 
there's  nothing  for  the  snow  to  cling  to.  When 
we  cut  out  the  foundation — they're  afraid  that  the 
vibration  will  loosen  the  rest  and  start  an  av- 
alanche. It  all  depends  whether  it  comes  before — 
or  after  we've  passed  through." 

"And  you  are  riot  afraid?"  She  asked  it  almost 
childishly.  He  shook  his  head. 

"I — don't  know.  I  guess  every  one  is — a 
bit  afraid,  when  they're  going  into  trouble.  I 
know  what  I'm  doing,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  moment,  looking  up  at 
the  packed  drifts,  at  the  ragged  outlines  of  the 
mountains  against  the  moonlit  sky,  then  into  the 
valleys  and  the  shimmering  form  of  the  round,  icy 
lake,  far  below.  Her  lips  moved,  and  Barry  went 
closer. 

"Beg  pardon?" 


272  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"Nothing — only  there  are  some  things  I  can't 
understand.  It  doesn't  seem  quite  natural — " 

"What?" 

"That  things  could—"  Then  she  straightened 
and  looked  at  him  with  clear,  frank  eyes.  "Mr. 
Houston,"  came  quietly,  "I've  been  thinking  about 
something  all  day.  I  have  felt  that  I  haven't  been 
quite  fair — that  a  man  who  has  acted  as  you  have 
acted  since — since  I  met  you  this  last  time — that  he 
deserves  more  of  a  chance  than  I  have  given  him. 
That—" 

"I'm  asking  nothing  of  you,  Miss  Robinette." 

"I  know.  I  am  asking  something  of  you.  I 
want  to  tell  you  that  I  have  been  hoping  that  you 
can  some  day  furnish  me  the  proof — that  you 
spoke  of  once.  I — that's  what  I  wanted  to  tell 
you,"  she  ended  quickly  and  extended  her  hand. 
"Good-by.  I'll  be  praying  for  all  of  you  up  there." 

Houston  answered  only  with  a  pressure  of  his 
hand.  His  throat  had  closed  suddenly.  His 
breath  jerked  into  his  lungs;  his  burning,  wind- 
torn  lips  ached  to  touch  the  hand  that  had  lingered 
for  a  moment  in  his.  He  looked  at  her  with  eyes 
that  spoke  what  his  tongue  could  not  say,  then  he 
went  on, — a  shambling,  dead-tired  man,  even  on 
awaking  from  sleep,  but  a  man  whose  heart  was 
beating  with  a  new  fervor.  She  would  be  praying 
for  all  of  them  up  there  at  the  Trail.  And  all  of 
them  included  him. 

At  the  cab  of  the  engine,  he  listened  to  the  final 
instructions  of  the  cursing,  anxious  superinten- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  273 

dent,  then  went  to  his  black  work  of  the  shovel. 
Higher  and  higher  mounted  the  steam  on  the 
gauge ;  theirs  was  the  first  plow,  theirs  the  greatest 
task.  For  if  they  did  not  go  through,  the  others 
could  not  follow;  if  their  attack  were  not  swift 
enough,  staunch  enough,  the  slide  that  was  sure  to 
come  sooner  or  later  would  carry  with  it  mangled 
machinery  and  the  torn  forms  of  men  into  a  chasm 
of  death.  One  by  one  the  final  orders  came, — 
crisp,  shouted,  cursing  commands,  answered  in 
kind.  Then  the  last  query: 

"If  there's  a  damn  man  of  you  who's  a  coward, 
step  out!  Hear  that?  If  you're  afraid — come 
on — there's  no  stopping  once  you  start!" 

Engine  after  engine  answered,  in  jeering,  sar- 
castic tones,  the  belligerent  cries  of  men  hiding 
what  pounded  in  their  hearts,  driving  down  by 
sheer  will-power  the  primitive  desires  of  self-pres- 
ervation. Again  was  the  call  repeated.  Again 
was  it  answered  by  men  who  snarled,  men  who 
cursed  that  they  might  not  pray.  And  with  it: 

"A-w-w-w-w — right!     Let  'er  go!" 

The  whistles  screamed.  Up  the  grade,  four 
engines  to  a  plow,  the  jets  of  steam  shrilling  up- 
ward, coughing  columns  of  smoke  leaping  blackly 
up  the  mountain  side,  the  start  was  made,  as  the 
great,  roaring  mass  of  machinery  gathered  speed 
for  the  impact. 

A  jarring  crash  that  all  but  threw  the  men  of  the 
first  crews  from  their  feet,  and  the  Death  Trail  had 
been  met.  Then  churning,  snarling,  roaring,  the 


274,  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

snow  flying  in  cloud-like  masses  past  them,  the 
first  plow  bit  its  way  deep  into  the  tremendous 
mass,  while  sweating  men,  Barry  Houston  among 
them,  crammed  coal  into  the  open,  angry  fire 
boxes,  the  sand  streamed  on  greasy  tracks, — and 
the  cavalcade  went  on. 

A  hundred  yards, — the  beams  knocking  down 
the  snow  above  and  all  but  covering  the  engines 
which  forced  their  way  through,  only  to  leave  as 
high  a  mass  behind;  while  the  whole  mountain 
seemed  to  tremble;  while  the  peaks  above  sent 
back  roar  for  roar,  and  grim,  determined  men 
pulled  harder  than  ever  at  the  throttles  and  waited, 
— for  the  breath  of  night  again,  or  the  crash  of  the 
avalanche. 

A  shout  from  Old  Andy.  A  pull  at  the  whistle, 
screeching  forth  its  note  of  victory.  From  in 
front  was  it  answered,  then  from  the  rear,  and  on 
and  on,  seemingly  through  an  interminable  dis- 
tance, as  moonlit  night  came  again,  as  the  lesser 
plows  in  the  rear  swept  their  way  clear  of  the 
Death  Trail  and  ground  onward  and  upward. 
But  only  for  a  moment.  Then,  the  blare  of  the 
whistles  was  drowned  in  a  greater  sound,  a  roar 
that  reverberated  through  the  hills  like  the  bellow 
of  a  thousand  thunders,  the  cracking  and  crashing 
of  trees,  the  splintering  of  great  rocks  as  the  snows 
of  the  granite  spires  above  the  Death  Trail  loosed 
at  last  and  crashed  downward  in  an  all-consuming 
rush  of  destruction.  Trees  gave  way  before  the 
constantly  gathering  mass  of  white,  and  joined  in 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  275 

the  downfall.  Great  boulders,  abutting  rocks, 
slides  of  shale !  On  it  went,  thundering  toward  the 
valley  and  the  gleaming  lake,  at  last  to  crash  there ; 
to  send  the  ten-foot  thicknesses  of  ice  splintering 
like  broken  glass;  to  pyramid,  to  spray  the  whole 
nether  world  with  ice  and  snow  and  scattering 
rock;  then  to  settle,  a  jumbled  conglomerate  mass 
of  destructiveness,  robbed  of  its  prey. 

And  the  men  shouted,  and  screamed  and  beat  at 
one  another  in  their  frenzy  of  happiness,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  the  track  had  been  torn  away  from  be- 
hind them  as  though  it  never  had  existed,  and  that 
they  now  were  cut  off  entirely  from  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Only  one  snowshed  remained,  with  but  a 
feeble  bulwark  of  drifts  before  it.  Already  lights 
were  gleaming  down  the  back-stretch,  engines  were 
rpuffing  upward,  bearing  ties  and  rails  and  ballast 
and  abuttment  materials,  on  toward  the  expected, 
with  men  ready  to  repair  the  damage  as  soon  as  it 
was  done.  There  were  cries  also  from  there  below, 
the  shouts  of  men  who  were  glad  even  as  the  crews 
of  the  engines  and  plows  were  glad,  and  the  en- 
gineers and  firemen  leaned  from  their  cabs  to  an- 
swer. 

Still  the  whistles  screamed;  all  through  the  night 
they  screamed,  as  drift  after  drift  yielded,  as  the 
eight-foot  bite  of  the  first  giant  auger  gnawed  and 
tore  at  the  packed  contents  of  the  last  shed  atop 
Crestline ;  then  roared  and  sang,  while  the  hills  sent 
back  their  outbursts  with  echoes  that  rolled,  one 
into  another,  until  at  last  the  whole  world  was  one 


276  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

terrific  out-pouring  of  explosive  sounds  and  shrill, 
shrieking  blasts,  as  though  the  mountains  were  bel- 
lowing their  anger,  their  remonstrance  at  defeat. 
Eight  feet,  then  eight  feet  more;  steadily  eight 
feet  onward.  Nor  did  the  men  curse  at  the  sulphur 
fumes,  nor  rail  at  the  steel-blue  ice.  It  was  the 
final  fight;  on  the  downgrade  were  lesser  drifts, 
puny  in  comparison  to  what  they  had  gone  through, 
simple,  easily  defeated  obstacles  to  the  giant  ma- 
chinery, which  would  work  then  with  gravity  in- 
stead of  against  it.  Eight  feet  more — eight  feet 
after  that;  they  marked  it  off  on  the  windows  of  the 
engine  cabs  with  greasy  fingers  and  counted  the 
hours  until  success.  Night  faded.  Dawn  came 
and  then, — the  sun!  Clear  and  brilliant  with 
the  promise  of  spring  again  and  of  melting  snows. 
The  fight  was  the  same  as  over. 

Sleep, — and  men  who  laughed,  even  as  they 
snored,  laughed  with  the  subconscious  knowledge 
of  success,  while  the  bunk  cars  which  sheltered 
them  moved  onward,  up  to  the  peak,  then  started 
down  the  range.  Night  again, — and  Houston 
once  more  in  the  engine  cab.  But  this  time,  the 
red  glare  of  the  fire-box  did  not  show  as  often 
against  the  sky ;  the  stops  were  less  frequent  for  the 
ice  packs;  once  the  men  even  sang! 

Morning  of  the  second  day, — and  again  the 
sunshine,  causing  dripping  streams  from  the  long, 
laden  branches  of  the  pines  and  spruce,  filling  the 
streams  bank-full,  here  and  there  cutting  through 
the  blanket  of  white  to  the  dun-brown  earth  again. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  277 

Work  over,  Houston  leaned  out  the  door  of  the 
bunk  car,  drinking  in  the  sunshine,  warm  for  the 
first  time  in  weeks,  it  seemed, — and  warm  in  heart 
and  spirit.  If  she  would  only  keep  her  promise! 
If  she  would  allow  Medaine  to  see  her!  If  she 
would  tell  her  the  truth, — about  the  contract,  the 
lease,  and  most  of  all  that  accusation.  If — 

The  whistles  again, — and  crowded  forms  at  the 
doors  of  the  cars.  Tabernacle  was  in  the  distance, 
while  men  and  women  waded  through  the  soggy 
snows  to  be  the  first  to  reach  the  train.  Happi- 
ness gleamed  on  the  features  of  the  inhabitants 
of  a  beleagured  land  shut  away  from  the  world 
for  weeks,  men  and  women  who  saw  no  shame  in 
the  tears  which  streamed  down  their  cheeks,  and 
who  sought  not  to  hide  them.  Eagerly  Barry 
searched  the  thronging  crowd,  at  last  to  catch  sight 
of  a  gigantic  figure,  his  wolf-dog  beside  him.  He 
leaped  from  the  car  even  before  it  had  ceased  to 
move. 

"Ba'trste!"  he  called.     "Ba'tiste !" 

Great  arms  opened  wide.  A  sob  came  from  the 
throat  of  a  giant. 

"Mon  Baree!  Mon  Baree!"  It  was  all  he 
could  say  for  a  monent.  Then,  "Mon  Baree,  he 
have  come  back  to  Ba'teese.  Ah,  Golemar!  Mon 
Baree,  he  have  come  back,  he  have  come  back!" 

"We've  won,  Ba'tiste!  The  line's  open— they'll 
be  running  trains  through  before  night.  And  if 
she  keeps  her  promise — " 

"She?"    Ba'tiste   stared   down   at  him.     They 


278  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

had  drawn  away  from  the  rest  of  the  excited,  noisy 
throng.  "She?  You  mean—" 

"Agnes.  You've  been  taking  care  of  her, 
haven't  you?  I  found  her — she  promised  that  she 
would  tell  the  truth  for  me  when  I  got  back,  that 
she  would  explain  the  lease  and  contract  and  tell 
Medaine  that  it  was  all  a  lie.  She — " 

But  Ba'tiste  Renaud  shook  his  head. 

"No,  Baree.  Eet  is  the  too  late.  I  have  jus* 
come — from  there.  I  have  close  her  eyes." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Dead!  Houston  saw  Medaine  Robinette  pass 
in  the  distance,  and  his  eyes  followed  her  until  she 
ihad  rounded  the  curve  by  the  dead  aspens, — the 
eyes  of  lost  hope.  For  it  was  upon  life  that  he  had 
planned  and  dreamed ;  that  the  woman  of  the  lonely 
cabin  would  stand  by  her  promise  made  in  a  time  of 
stress  and  right  at  least  some  of  the  wrongs  which 
had  been  his  burden.  But  now — 

"She — she  didn't  tell  you  anything  before  she 
iwent?" 

Ba'tiste  shook  his  head. 

"She  would  not  speak  to  me.  Nothing  would 
she  tell  me.  At  first  I  go  alone — then  yesterday, 
when  the  snow,  he  pack,  I  take  Golemar.  Then 
she  is  unconscious.  All  day  and  night  I  stay  be- 
side the  bed,  but  she  do  not  open  her  eye.  Then, 
with  the  morning,  she  sigh,  and  peuff!  She  is 
gone." 

"Without  a  word."  It  spelled  blackness  for 
Houston  where  there  had  been  light.  "I — I — • 
suppose  you've  taken  charge  of  everything." 

"Out!  But  I  have  look  at  nothing — if  that  is 
what  you  mean." 

"No — I  just  had  something  here  that  you  ought 
to  have,"  Houston  fumbled  in  his  pockets. 


280  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"She  would  want  it  around  her  neck,  I  feel  sure, 
when  she  is ." 

But  the  sudden  glare  in  Ba'tiste's  eyes  stopped 
him  as  he  brought  forth  the  crucifix  and  its  tangled 
chain.  The  giant's  hands  raised.  His  big  lips 
twisted.  A  lunge  and  he  had  come  forward,  sav- 
age, almost  beast-like. 

"You!"  He  bellowed.  "Where  you  get  that? 
Hear  me,  where  you  get  that?" 

"From  her.     She—" 

"Then  come!  Come — quick  with  me!"  He 
almost  dragged  the  younger  man  away,  hurrying 
him  toward  the  sled  and  its  broad-backed  old 
horses.  "We  must  go  to  the  cabin,  oui — yes! 
Hurry — "  Houston  saw  that  he  was  trembling. 
"Eet  is  the  thing  I  look  for— the  thing  I  look 
for!" 

"Ba'tiste!    What  do  you  mean?" 

"My  Julienne,"  came  hoarsely.  "Eet  is  my 
Julienne's !" 

Already  they  were  in  the  sled,  the  wolf-dog 
perched  between  them,  and  hurrying  along  the 
mushy  road,  which  followed  the  lesser  raises  of 
snow,  taking  advantage  of  every  windbreak  and 
avoiding  the  greater  drifts  of  the  highway  itself. 
Two  miles  they  went,  the  horses  urged  to  their 
greatest  speed.  Then,  with  a  leap,  Ba'tiste 
cleared  the  runners  and  motioned  to  the  man  be- 
hind him. 

"Come  with  me!  Golemar!  You  shall  stay 
behind.  You  shall  fall  in  the  drift—"  The  old 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  281 

man  was  talking  excitedly,  almost  childishly. 
"No?  Then  come — Eet  is  your  own  self  that 
must  be  careful.  Ba'teese,  he  cannot  watch  you. 
Come!" 

At  a  run,  he  went  forward,  to  thread  his  way 
through  the  pines,  to  flounder  where  the  snow  had 
not  melted,  to  go  waist-deep  at  times,  but  still  to 
rush  onward  at  a  speed  which  taxed  even  Hous- 
ton's younger  strength  to  keep  him  in  sight.  The 
wolf-dog  buried  itself  in  the  snow,  Houston  pull- 
ing it  forth  time  after  time,  and  lugging  it  at  long 
intervals.  Then  at  last  came  the  little  clearing,— 
and  the  cabin.  Ba'tiste  already  was  within. 

Houston  avoided  the  figure  on  the  bed  as  he  en- 
tered and  dropped  beside  the  older  man,  already 
dragging  forth  the  drawers  of  the  bureau  and 
pawing  excitedly  among  the  trinkets  there.  He 
gasped  and  pulled  forth  a  string  of  beads,  hold- 
ing them  trembling  to  the  light,  and  veering  from 
his  jumbled  English  to  a  stream  of  French.  Then  a 
watch,  a  ring,  and  a  locket  with  a  curly  strand  of 
baby  hair.  The  giant  sobbed. 

"My  Pierre — eet  was  my  Pierre!" 

"What's  that?"  Houston  had  raised  suddenly, 
was  staring  in  the  direction  of  an  old  commode  in 
the  corner.  At  the  door  the  wolf-dog  sniffed  and 
snarled.  Ba'tiste,  bending  among  the  lost  trin- 
kets that  once  had  been  his  wife's,  did  not  hear. 
Houston  grasped  him  by  the  shoulder  and  shook 
him  excitedly. 

"Ba'tiste!    [Ba'tiste!    There's  some  one  hiding 


282  THE  WHITE  DESERT 


rer  there  in  the  corner.  I  heard  sounds — loot 
at  Golemar!" 

"Hiding?  No.  There  is  no  one  here — no  one 
but  Ba'tiste  and  his  memories.  No  one — " 

"I  tell  you  I  heard  some  one.  The  commode 
moved.  I  know!" 

He  rose,  only  to  suddenly  veer  and  flatten  him- 
self against  the  wall.  The  yellow  blaze  of  aimless 
revolver  fire  had  spurted  from  the  corner;  then  the 
plunging  form  of  a  gnarled,  gangling,  limping 
man,  who  rushed  past  Houston  to  the  door, 
swerved  there,  and  once  more  raised  the  revolver. 
But  he  did  not  fire. 

A  furry,  snarling  thing  had  leaped  at  him, 
knocking  the  revolver  from  his  hand  in  its  plung- 
ing ascent.  Then  a  cry, — a  gurgling  growl. 
Teeth  had  clenched  at  the  throat  of  the  man;  to- 
gether they  rolled  through  the  door  to  the  snow 
without,  Golemar,  his  hold  broken  by  the  fall, 
striving  again  for  the  death  clutch,  the  man 
screaming  in  sudden  frantic  fear. 

"Take  him  off!"  The  voice  of  the  thin-visaged 
Fred  Thayer  was  shrill  now.  "Take  him  off — 
I'll  tell  you  about  it — she  did  it — she  did  it!  Take 
him  off  1" 

"Golemar!"  Ba'tiste  had  appeared  in  the  door- 
way. Below  the  dog  whirled  in  obedience  to  his 
command  and  edged  back,  teeth  still  bared,  eyes 
vigilant,  waiting  for  the  first  movement  of  the  man 
on  the  ground.  Houston  went  forward  and  stood 
peering  down  at  the  frightened,  huddled  form  of 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  283 

Thayer,  wiping  the  blood  from  the  fang  wound  in 
his  neck. 

"You'll  tell  about  what?"  came  with  sudden  in- 
cisiveness. 

The  man  stared,  suddenly  aware  that  he  had 
spoken  of  a  thing  that  had  been  mentioned  by 
neither  Ba'tiste  nor  Houston.  His  lips  worked 
crookedly.  He  tried  to  smile,  but  it  ended  only 
in  a  misshapen  snarl. 

"I  thought  you  fellows  were  looking  for  some- 
thing. I — I — wanted  to  get  the  dog  off." 

"We  were.  WeVe  found  it.  Ba'tiste,"  and 
Houston  forced  back  the  tigerish  form  of  the  big 
French-Canadian.  "You  walk  in  front  of  us.  I'm 
—I'm  afraid  to  trust  you  right  now.  And  don't 
turn  back.  Do  you  promise?" 

The  big  hands  worked  convulsively.  The  eyes 
took  on  a  newer,  fiercer  glare. 

"He  is  the  man,  eh?  His  conscience,  eet  speak 
when  there  is  no  one  to  ask  the  question.  He — " 

"Go  on,  Ba'tiste.  Please."  Houston's  voice 
was  that  of  a  pleading  son.  Once  more  the  big 
muscles  knotted,  the  arms  churned ;  the  giant's  teeth 
showed  between  furled  lips  in  a  sudden  beast-like 
expression. 

"Ba'tiste!  Do  you  want  to  add  murder  to 
murder?  This  is  out  of  our  hands  now;  it's  a 
matter  of  law.  Now,  go  ahead — for  me." 

With  an  effort  the  Canadian  obeyed,  the  wolf- 
dog  trotting  beside  him,  Houston  following,  one 
hand  locked  about  the  buckle  of  the  thinner  man's 


284.  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

belt,  the  other  half  supporting  him  as  he  limped 
and  reeled  through  the  snow. 

"It's  my  hip—  The  man's  mind  had  gone  to 
trivial  things.  "I  sprained  it — about  ten  days  ago. 
I'd  been  living  over  here  with  her  up  till  the  storm. 
Then  I  had  to  be  at  camp.  I — " 

"That  was  your  child,  then?" 

Fred  Thayer  was  silent.  Barry  Houston  re- 
peated the  question  commandingly.  There  could 
be  no  secrecy  now ;  events  had  gone  too  far.  For 
a  third  time  the  accusation  came  and  the  man  be- 
side him  turned  angrily. 

"Whose  would  you  think  it  was?" 

Houston  did  not  answer.  They  stumbled  on 
through  the  snow-drifted  woods,  finally  to  reach 
the  open  space  leading  to  the  sleigh.  Thayer  drew 
back. 

"What's  the  use  of  taking  me  into  town?"  he 
begged.  "She's  dead  and  gone;  you  can't  harm 
her  now." 

"We're  not  inquiring  about  her." 

"But  she's  the  one  that  did  it.  She  told  me — • 
when  she  first  got  sick.  Those  are  her  things  in 
there.  They're—" 

"Have  I  asked  you  about  anything?"  Houston 
bit  the  words  at  him.  Again  the  man  was  silent. 
They  reached  the  sled,  and  Ba'tiste  pointed  to  the 
seat. 

"In  there,"  he  ordered.  "Ba'teese  will  walk. 
Ba'teese  afraid — too  close."  And  then,  in  silence, 
the  trip  to  town  was  made,  at  last  to  draw  up  in 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  285 

front  of  the  boarding  house.     Houston  called  to  a 
bystander. 

"Is  the  'phone  working — to  Montview?" 

"Yeh.  Think  it  is.  Got  it  opened  up  yester- 
day." 

"Then  call  up  over  there  and  tell  the  sheriff  we 
want  him.  It  has  to  do  with  the  Renaud  murder." 

The  loafer  sprang  to  the  street  and  veered  across, 
shouting  the  news  as  he  went,  while  Ba'tiste  made 
hurried  arrangements  regarding  the  silent  form  of 
the  lonely  cabin.  A  few  moments  later,  the  make- 
shift boarding-house  lobby  was  crowded,  while 
Barry  Houston,  reverting  to  the  bitter  lessons  he 
had  learned  during  the  days  of  his  own  cross-ex- 
aminations, took  his  place  in  front  of  the  accused 
man. 

"In  the  first  place,  Thayer,"  he  commanded. 
"You  might  as  well  know  one  thing.  You're 
caught.  The  goods  are  on  you.  You're  going  up 
— if  for  nothing  else  than  an  attempt  to  murder 
Ba'tiste  Renaud  and  myself." 

"I — I  thought  you  were  robbers." 

"You  know  that's  a  lie.  But  that's  a  matter  for 
the  court  room.  There  are  greater  things.  In  the 
first  place—" 

"About  that  other — "  Still  he  clung  to  his  one 
shred  of  a  story,  his  only  possibility  of  hope.  Con- 
science had  prompted  the  first  outcry;  now  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  follow  the  lead.  "I  don't 
know  anything.  She  told  me — that's  all.  And 
she's  dead  now." 


286  THE  WHITE  DESERT 


"Ah,  awir  Ba'tiste  had  edged  forward.  "She 
is  dead.  And  because  she  is  dead  —  because  she 
have  suffer  and  die,  you  would  lay  to  her  door 
murder!  Eet  is  the  lie!  Where  then  is  the  ten 
thousand  dollar  she  took  —  if  she  kill  my  Julienne? 
Eh?  Where  is  the  gun  with  which  she  shot  her? 
Ah,  you  cringe!  For  why  you  do  that  —  for  why 
do  you  not  look  at  Ba'teese  when  he  talk  about  his 
Julienne!  Eh?  Is  eet  that  you  are  afraid?  Is 
eet  that  your  teeth  are  on  your  tongue,  to  keep  eet 
from  the  truth  ?  Ouil  You  are  the  man  —  you  are 
the  man!" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  She  told  me 
she  did  it  —  that  those  were  Mrs.  Renaud's  things." 

"Ah!  Then  you  have  nev'  see  that  ring,  which 
my  Julienne,  she  wore  on  her  finger.  Ah,  no? 
You  have  nev'  see,  in  all  the  time  that  you  come 
to  Ba'teese  house,  the  string  of  bead  about  her 
neck.  Ouil  Eet  is  the  lie,  you  tell.  You  have 
see  them  —  eet  is  the  lie!" 

And  thus  the  battle  progressed,  the  old  man 
storming,  the  frowning,  sullen  captive  in  the  chair 
replying  in  monosyllables,  or  refusing  to  answer 
at  all.  An  hour  passed,  while  Tabernacle  crowded 
the  little  lobby  and  overflowed  to  the  street.  One 
by  one  Ba'tiste  brought  forth  the  trinkets  and  laid 
them  before  the  thin-face.d  man.  He  forced  them 
into  his  hands.  He  demanded  that  he  explain  why 
he  had  said  nothing  of  their  presence  in  the  lonely 
cabin,  when  he  had  known  them,  every  one,  from 
having  seen  them  time  after  time  in  the  home  of 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  287 

Renaud.  The  afternoon  grew  old.  The  sheriff 
arrived, — and  still  the  contest  went  on.  Then, 
with  a  sudden  shifting  of  the  head,  a  sudden  break 
of  reserve,  Thayer  leaned  forward  and  rubbed  his 
gnarled  hands,  one  against  the  other. 

"All  right!"  he  snapped.  "Have  it  your  way. 
No  use  in  trying  to  lay  it  on  the  woman — you 
could  prove  an  alibi  for  her.  You're  right.  I 
killed  them  both." 

"Both?"  They  stared  at  him.  Thayer  nodded, 
still  looking  at  the  floor,  his  tongue  licking  suddenly 
dry  lips. 

"Yeh,  both  of  'em.  One  brought  on  the  other. 
Mrs.  Renaud  and  John  Corbin — they  called  him 
Tom  Langdon  back  East." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

It  was  staggering  in  its  unexpectedness.  A  gasp 
came  from  the  lips  of  Barry  Houston.  He  felt 
himself  reeling, — only  to  suddenly  straighten,  as 
though  a  crushing  weight  had  been  lifted  from  his 
shoulders.  He  whirled  excitedly  and  grasped  the 
nearest  onlooker. 

"Go  get  Medaine  Robinette.  Hurry!  Tell  her 
that  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance — that  I  have 
found  the  proof.  She'll  understand." 

Then,  struggling  to  reassure  himself,  he  turned 
again  to  the  prisoner.  Two  hours  later,  in  the  last 
glint  of  day,  the  door  opened,  and  a  woman  came  to 
his  side,  where  he  was  finishing  the  last  of  many 
closely  written  sheets  of  paper.  He  looked  up  at 
her,  boyishly,  happily.  Without  waiting  for  her 
permission,  he  grasped  her  hand,  and  then,  as 
though  eager  for  her  to  hear,  he  turned  to  the  worn- 
faced  .man,  now  slumped  dejectedly  in  his  chair. 

"You  understand,  Thayer,  that  this  is  your 
written  confession?" 

The  man  nodded. 

"Given  in  the  presence  of  the  sheriff,  of  Ba'tiste 
Renaud,  of  myself,  and  the  various  citizens  of 
Tabernacle  that  you  see  here?" 

"Yes." 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  289 

"Of  your  own  free  will,  without  threats  or  vio- 
lence?" 

"I  guess  so.'* 

"And  you  are  willing  to  sign  it?" 

The  man  hesitated.     Then: 

"I'd  want  to  know  what  I  was  signing." 

"Certainly.  I  intend  to  read  it  to  you — so  that 
all  witnesses  may  hear  it.  It  is  then  to  be  filed 
with  the  district  attorney.  You  can  signify  its 
correctness  or  incorrectness  after  every  paragraph. 
Is  that  agreeable?" 

"I  guess  so." 

A  pause.    At  last: 

"  'My  name  is  Fred  Thayer.  I  am  forty-fouf 
years  of  age.  Prior  to  about  a  year  ago,  I  was 
employed  by  the  Empire  Lake  Mill  and  Lumber 
Company  as  superintendent.  I  had  occupied  this 
position  for  some  fifteen  or  twenty  years,  begin- 
ning with  it  when  it  was  first  started  by  Mr.  Hous- 
ton of  Boston.'  Is  that  right?" 

A  nod  from  the  accused.     Houston  went  on: 

e  'I  figured  from  the  first  that  I  was  going  to 
be  taken  in  partnership  with  Mr.  Houston,  al- 
though nothing  ever  was  said  about  it.  I  just  took 
it  for  granted.  However,  when  years  passed  and  f 
nothing  was  done  about  it,  I  began  to  force  matters, 
by  letting  the  mill  run  down,  knowing  that  Mr. 
Houston  was  getting  old,  and  that  he  might  be 
willing  to  sell  out  to  me  if  things  got  bad  enough. 
At  that  time,  I  didn't  know  where  I  was  going  to 
get  the  money,  but  hoped  that  Mr.  Houston  would 


290  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

let  me  have,  the  mill  and  acreage  on  some  sort  of  a 
payment  basis.  I  went  back  to  see  him  about  it 
a  couple  of  times,  but  he  wouldn't  listen  to  me. 
He  said  that  he  wanted  to  either  close  the  thing 
out  for  cash  or  keep  on  running  it  in  the  hope  of 
making  something  of  it.'  That's  all  right,  isn't  it, 
Thayer?" 

"Yes." 

"  'I  tried  two  or  three  times  to  get  him  to  sell 
out  to  me,  but  we  couldn't  get  together  on  the 
terms.  He  always  wanted  cash,  and  I  couldn't 
furnish  it — although  I  pretended  that  I  had  the 
money  all  right,  but  that  I  simply  did  not  want  to 
tie  it  all  up  at  once.  About  this  time — I  think  it 
was  three  or  four  years  ago ;  I  am  not  exactly  clear 
on  the  dates — a  nephew  of  his  named  Thomas 
Langdon  came  out  here,  under  the  name  of  John 
Corbin.  He  had  been  a  black  sheep  and  was  now 
wandering  about  the  country,  doing  anything  that 
he  could  set  his  hand  to  for  a  living.  I  had  known 
him  since  boyhood  and  gave  him  a  job  under  his 
assumed  name.  He  pretended  that  he  was  very 
close  to  Mr.  Houston,  and  I  thought  maybe  he 
could  help  me  get  the  plant.  But  his  word  was  not 
worth  as  much  as  mine.'  Have  I  taken  that  down 
correctly,  Thayer?" 

"Yes.  Except  about  Langdon.  He  told  me 
when  he  came  here  that  his  uncle  had  sent  him  out 
to  straighten  him  up.  But  I  don't  guess  it  makes 
much  difference." 

Houston,  nevertheless,  made  the  changes,  glanc- 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  291 

ing  up  once  to  assure  himself  that  Medaine  still 
was  there.  She  had  not  left  his  side.  He  went  on 
with  the  reading : 

"  'By  this  time,  the  mill  had  gotten  to  he  a  sort 
of  mania  with  me,  and  I  almost  had  myself  believ- 
ing that  Houston  had  promised  me  more  than  he 
had  given  me.  Then,  a  woman  came  out  here,  an 
Agnes  Jierdon,  a  stenographer,  on  her  vacation. 
I  met  her  and  learned  that  she  was  from  Boston.' ' 
A  slight  pressure  exerted  itself  on  Houston's  arm. 
He  glanced  down  to  see  Medaine  Robinette's  hand, 
clasped  tight.  '  'She  spent  nearly  the  whole  sum- 
mer here,  and  I  made  love  to  her.  I  asked  her  to 
marry  me,  and  she  told  me  that  she  would.  She 
was  really  very  much  in  love  with  me.  I  didn't 
care  about  her — I  was  working  for  a  purpose.  I 
wanted  to  use  her — to  get  her  in  Houston's  office. 
I  wanted  to  find  out  what  was  going  on,  so  that  I 
would  know  in  advance,  and  so  that  I  could  pre- 
pare for  it  by  having  breakage  at  the  mill,  to  stop 
contracts  and  run  things  farther  down  than  ever, 
so  the  old  man  would  get  disgusted  and  sell  out  at 
my  terms.  I  knew  there  would  be  a  mint  of  money 
for  me  if  I  could  get  hold  of  that  mill.  At  the 
end  of  her  vacation,  she  went  back  to  Boston  and 
got  a  job  with  Houston,  as  an  office  clerk.  Almost 
the  first  thing  that  she  wrote  me  was  that  the  old 
man  was  thinking  about  selling  out  to  some  con- 
cern back  East.' " 

Houston  looked  toward  the  accused  man  for  his 
confirmation,  then  continued. 


292  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

"  'While  she  had  been  out  here,  I  had  told  her 
that  Houston  had  promised  to  take  me  into  part- 
nership and  that  he  had  gone  back  on  his  word.  I 
put  it  up  to  her  pretty  strong  about  how  I  had 
been  tricked  into  working  for  him  for  years,  and 
she  was  sympathetic  with  me,  of  course,  inasmuch 
as  she  was  in  love  with  me.  Naturally,  when  she 
heard  this,  she  wrote  me  right  away.  It  made  me 
desperate.  Then  I  thought  of  Ba'tiste  Renaud.' ' 

"Ah!"  The  word  was  accompanied  by  a  sharp 
intake  of  breath  as  the  big  French-Canadian  moved 
closer  to  hear  again  the  story  of  a  murder.  But 
the  sheriff  motioned  him  back.  The  emotions  of 
the  old  trapper  were  not  to  be  trusted.  The  recital 
went  on: 

"  'Everybody  around  this  country  had  always 
talked  about  how  rich  he  was.  There  was  a  saying 
that  he  didn't  believe  in  banks  and  that  he  kept 
more  than  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  his  little 
cabin.  At  this  time,  both  he  and  his  son  were 
away  at  war,  and  I  thought  I  could  steal  this 
money,  place  it  in  other  hands,  and  then  work 
things  so  that  if  I  did  get  hold  of  the  mill,  people 
around  here  would  merely  think  I  had  borrowed 
the  money  and  bought  the  mill  with  it.  By  this 
time,  a  cousin  of  Miss  Jierdon's,  a  fellow  named 
Jenkins,  had  gotten  a  job  with  Houston  and  was 
working  with  her,  and  of  course,  I  was  hearing 
everything  that  went  on.  It  looked  like  the  deal 
was  going  through,  and  it  forced  me  to  action. 
One  night  I  watched  Mrs.  Renaud  and  saw  her 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  298 

leave  the  house.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  town. 
Instead,  after  I'd  gotten  into  the  cabin,  she  came 
back,  surprising  me.  There  wasn't  anything  else 
to  do.  I  killed  her,  with  a  revolver.' ' 

"EHable/" 

"Easy,  Ba'tiste.  That's  the  way  you  gave  it  to 
me,  isn't  it,  Thayer?" 

"Yes.  I  shot  twice  at  her.  The  first  bullet 
missed." 

Again  the  door  of  the  tiny  lobby  opened  and 
closed,  and  a  form  edged  forward, — Blackburn, 
summoned  from  his  mill.  Thayer  glanced  at  him, 
then  lowered  his  eyes.  Houston  made  the  ad- 
ditional notation  on  the  confession  and  went  back 
to  his  reading: 

"  'When  I  found  the  deed  box,  there  was  only 
ten  thousand  dollars  in  it  instead  of  the  fortune  that 
I  had  supposed  was  there.  I  was  about  to  take 
it  out  and  stuff  it  into  my  pocket,  when  I  heard  a 
noise  outside  the  window.  Thinking  it  was 
Renaud's  wolf-dog,  and  that  he  might  give  the 
alarm,  I  pushed  the  box  under  my  coat  and  ran 
out  the  back  door.  The  next  day,  Corbin — or 
Langdon — came  to  me  and  demanded  his  share 
of  what  I  had  stolen.  He  said  that  he  had  seen 
me  at  the  deed  box  after  I  had  killed  the  woman, 
that  he  had  made  the  noise  outside  the  window.  I 
put  him  off — denying  it  all.  But  it  wasn't  any  use. 
At  first  he  threatened  that  he  would  go  to  the 
sheriff  at  Montview,  and  for  several  days  he  came 
to  me,  telling  me  that  this  was  the  last  chance  that 


294  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

he  would  give  me  if  I  didn't  let  him  have  his 
share.  I  played  him  for  time.  Then  he  began 
to  beg  small  amounts  of  money  from  me,  promis? 
ing  to  keep  still  if  I  gave  them  to  him.  I  guess 
this  kept  up  for  two  or  three  months,  the  amounts 
getting  larger  all  the  time.  At  last,  I  wouldn't 
stand  it  any  longer.  He  threatened  me  again,— 
and  then,  suddenly,  one  day  disappeared.  I 
hurried  to  Montview,  thinking  of  course  that  he 
had  gone  there,  hoping  to  catch  him  on  the  way. 
But  no  one  had  seen  him.  Then  I  went  to  Taber- 
nucle  and  learned  that  he  had  bought  a  ticket  for 
Boston,  and  that  he  had  left  on  a  morning  train. 
I  knew  what  was  up  then;  he  was  going  back  to 
tell  Old  Man  Houston  and  try  to  step  into  my 
shoes  when  I  was  arrested.  But  I  beat  him  there 
by  going  over  the  range  in  an  automobile,  and  tak- 
ing an  earlier  train  for  Boston.  I  picked  him  up 
when  he  arrived  and  trailed  him  to  young  Hous- 
ton's office.  After  that  I  saw  them  go  to  a  cafe, 
and  from  there  to  a  prize  fight.  I  bought  a  ticket 
and  watched  them  from  the  rear  of  the  hall.  I  had 
my  gun  with  me — I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  kill 
them  both.  I  thought  Langdon  had  told.  After 
the  fight,  they  started  out,  myself  in  the  rear. 
Young  Houston  had  gotten  a  mallet  from  the  time- 
keeper. On  the  way  home,  I  could  hear  them  talk- 
ing, and  heard  Houston  asking  Langdon  why  he 
wanted  to  see  the  old  man.  By  that  I  knew  that 
it  hadn't  been  told  yet— and  I  felt  safer.  Then 
they  got  in  a  quarrel,  and  my  chance  came.  It 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  295 

was  over  the  mallet — Langdon  took  it  away  from 
his  cousin  and  started  to  fight  him.  Houston  ran. 
When  he  was  well  out  of  sight,  I  went  forward. 
No  one  was  near.  Langdon  still  had  the  mallet  in 
his  hand.  I  crept  up  behind  him  and  clubbed  my 
revolver,  hitting  him  on  the  head  with  it.  He  fell 
— dead — and  I  knew  I  was  safe,  that  Houston 
would  be  accused.' ' 

Barry  looked  earnestly  at  the  man  before  him. 

"That's  all  true,  isn't  it,  Thayer?" 

"I  haven't  made  any  objection,  have  I?"  came 
surlily. 

"I  merely  wanted  to  be  sure.  But  to  go  on: 
'Then  I  thought  of  a  way  to  get  what  I  wanted 
from  Miss  Jierdon.  This  was  several  months 
afterward,  just  before  the  trial.  I  argued  that  I 
was  sure  young  Houston  hadn't  committed  the 
murder,  and  that  if  some  woman  could  testify  to 
the  fact  that  Langdon  had  that  mallet,  it  might  free 
Houston,  and  make  a  hit  with  the  old  man  and  that 
maybe  he  would  make  good  on  his  promises.  I 
did  it  pretty  skilfully  and  she  listened  to  me,  largely, 
I  guess,  because  she  was  in  love  with  me.  Any- 
way, it  ended  with  her  testifying  at  the  trial  in  a 
sort  of  negative  way.  I  didn't  care  about  that — 
it  was  something  else  I  wanted.  Later  after  the 
old  man  had  died,  I  used  it.  I  wanted  her  to 
switch  some  papers  on  young  Mr.  Houston  for  me, 
and  she  bucked  against  it.  Then  I  told  her  that 
she  had  done  worse  things,  that  she  had  perjured 
herself,  and  that  unless  she  stayed  by  me,  she  could 


296  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

be  sent  to  the  penitentiary.  Of  course,  I  didn't 
tell  her  in  those  exact  words — I  did  it  more  in  the 
way  of  making  a  criminal  out  of  her  already,  so 
that  the  thing  she  was  going  to  do  wouldn't  seem 
as  bad  to  her.  I  wasn't  foolish  enough  to  threaten 
her.  Besides,  I  told  her  that  the  mill  should  have 
been  rightfully  mine,  that  the  old  man  had  lied  to 
me  and  gotten  me  to  work  for  him  for  years  at 
starvation  wages,  on  promises  that  it  would  be  mine 
some  time,  and  that  he  had  neither  taken  me  in 
partnership,  nor  left  it  to  me  in  the  will.  She  got 
her  cousin  to  help  her  in  the  transfer  of  the  papers ; 
it  was  a  lease  and  stumpage  contract.  He  affixed 
a  notary  seal  to  it.  The  thing  was  illegitimate,  of 
course.  Shortly  after  that,  young  Houston  came 
out  here  again,  and  I  got  her  to  come  too.  I 
wanted  to  see  what  he  was  up  to.  He  fired  me, 
and  while  he  was  in  Denver,  and  Renaud  away  from 
the  mill,  I  got  Miss  Jierdon  and  took  her  for  a 
walk,  while  one  of  the  other  men  kept  watch  for 
the  cook  who  was  asleep.  But  she  didn't  wake  up. 
On  the  way  back,  Miss  Jierdon  saw  that  the  mill 
was  burning,  and  I  directed  her  suspicion  toward 
Renaud.  She  accused  him,  and  it  brought  aboul 
a  little  quarrel  between  Miss  Jierdon  and  younj 
Houston.  I  had  forced  her,  by  devious  ways, 
pretend  that  she  was  in  love  with  him — keepin/ 
that  perjury  thing  hanging  over  her  all  the  ti] 
and  constantly  harping  on  how,  even  though  he  wt 
a  nice  young  fellow,  he  was  robbing  us  both  oi 
something  that  was  rightfully  ours.  All  this  time 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  297 

I  had  dodged  marrying  her,  promising  that  I  would 
do  it  when  the  mill  was  mine.  In  the  meantime, 
with  the  lease  and  contract  in  my  hands,  I  had 
hooked  up  with  this  man  here,  Blackburn,  and  he 
had  started  a  mill  for  me.  I  guess  Miss  Jierdon 
had  gotten  to  thinking  a  little  of  Houston,  after 
all,  because  when  I  forced  her  to  the  final  thing  of 
telling  some  lies  about  him  to  a  young  woman,  she 
did  it,  but  went  away  mad  at  me  and  threatening 
never  to  see  me  again.  But  a  little  while  later, 
she  came  back.  Our  relations,  while  she  had  been 
at  the  Houston  camp,  hadn't  been  exactly  what 
they  should  have  been.  Miss  Jierdon  is  dead — 
she  had  stayed  in  a  little  cabin  in  the  woods.  I 
had  lived  with  her  there.  About  ten  days  ago,  the 
baby  died,  while  I  was  laid  up  at  camp  with  a 
sprained  hip.  To-day  I  went  there  to  find  her  dead, 
and  while  I  was  there,  Renaud  and  young  Hous- 
ton caught  me.  This  is  all  I  know.  I  make  this 
statement  of  my  own  free  will,  without  coercion, 
and  I  swear  it  to  be  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth,  so  help  me  God.' ' 

The  little  lobby  milled  and  buzzed,  drowning  the 
scratching  of  the  pen  as  a  trembling  man  signed 
the  confession,  page  by  page.  Then  came  the  clink 
of  handcuffs.  A  moment  later  two  figures  had  de- 
parted in  the  dusk, — the  sheriff  and  Fred  Thayer, 
bound  for  the  jail  at  Montview.  Houston  straight- 
ened, to  find  a  short,  bulky  form  before  him,  Henry 
Blackburn. 

"Well?"questioned  that  person.    "I  guess  it's  up 


298  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

to  me.     I — I  haven't  got  much  chance  against  that." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Simply  this,"  and  the  bulky  Blackburn  drew  a 
nervous,  sweating  hand  acros  his  brow.  "I  ain't 
above  dealing  with  crooks,  I'll  admit  that.  I've 
done  a  few  things  in  my  life  that  haven't  been  any 
too  straight,  or  any  too  noble,  and  when  Thayer 
came  to  me  with  this  contract  and  lease,  I  didn't 
ask  any  questions.  My  lawyer  said  it  was  O.  K. 
That  was  enough  for  me.  But  somehow  or  other, 
I  kind  of  draw  the  line  at  murder.  I'm  in  your 
hands,  Houston.  I've  got  a  mill  up  there  that 
I've  put  a  lot  of  money  in.  It  ain't  worth  the 
powder  to  blow  it  up  now — to  me,  anyway.  But 
with  you,  it's  different.  If  you  want  to  make  me 
a  fair  offer,  say  the  word,  and  I'll  go  more  than  half- 
way. What  say?" 

"Is  to-morrow  time  enough?" 

"  To-morrow — or  the  next  day — or  the  next 
week.  Suits  me.  I'm  in  your  hands." 

Then  he  went  on,  leaving  only  three  figures  in 
the  lobby, — the  bent,  silent  form  of  Ba'tiste  Renaud, 
grave,  but  rewarded  at  last  in  his  faithful  search; 
the  radiant-eyed  Houston,  free  with  a  freedom  that 
he  hardly  believed  could  exist;  and  a  girl  who 
walked  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out  a 
moment  before  she  turned  to  him.  Then  impetu- 
ously she  faced  him,  her  eyes  searching  his,  her  hands 
tight  clasped,  her  whole  being  one  of  supplication. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  begged.  "Can  you — will  you 
forgive  me?" 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  299 

Boyishly  Barry  Houston  reached  forward  and 
drew  away  a  strand  of  hair  that  had  strayed  from 
place,  a  spirit  of  venture  in  his  manner,  a  buoyant 
tone  in  his  voice. 

"Say  it  again.     I  like  it!" 

"But  I  am — don't  you  believe  me?" 

"Of  course.  But  then— I— I-  Then  he  caught 
her  hands.  "Will  you  go  with  me  while  I  tele- 
graph?" he  asked  in  sudden  earnestness.  "I  want 
to  wire — to  the  papers  back  in  Boston  and  tell  them 
that  I've  been  vindicated.  Will  you — ?" 

"I'd  be  glad  to." 

They  went  out  the  door  together,  Houston  beam- 
ing happily  downward,  the  girl  close  beside  him, 
her  arm  in  his.  And  it  was  then  that  the  features 
of  Ba'tiste  Renaud  lost  their  gravity  and  sorrow. 
He  looked  after  them,  his  eyes  soft  and  contented. 
Then  his  big  hands  parted  slowly.  His  lips  broke 
into  a  smile  of  radiant  happiness. 

And  it  was  with  the  same  glad  light  in  his  eyes 
that  three  months  later  Ba'tiste  Renaud  stood  on  the 
shores  of  Empire  Lake,  his  wolf-dog  beside  him, 
looking  out  over  the  rippling  sheen  of  the  water. 
The  snow  was  gone  from  the  hills  now;  the  colors 
were  again  radiant,  the  blues  and  purples  and 
greens  and  reds  vying,  it  seemed,  with  one  another, 
in  a  constantly  recurring  contest  of  beauty.  Afar 
off,  logs  were  sliding  in  swift  succession  down  the 
skidways,  to  lose  themselves  in  the  waters,  then  to 
bob  along  toward  the  current  that  would  carry 


300  THE  WHITE  DESERT 

them  to  the  flume.  The  jays  cried  and  quarreled 
in  the  aspens;  in  a  little  bay,  an  old  beaver  made 
his  first  sally  of  the  evening,  and  by  angry  slaps 
of  his  tail  warned  the  rest  of  the  colony  that  humans 
were  near.  Distantly,  from  down  the  bubbling 
stream  which  led  from  the  lake,  there  sounded  the 
snarl  of  giant  saws  and  the  hum  of  machinery, 
where,  in  two  great  mills,  the  logs  traveled  into 
a  manufactured  state  through  a  smooth-working 
process  that  led  from  "j  acker"  to  kicker",  thence 
to  the  platforms  and  the  shotgun  carriages;  into 
the  mad  rush  of  the  bank  saws,  while  the  rumbling 
rolls  caught  the  offal  to  cart  it  away;  then  surging 
on,  to  the  edgers  and  trimmers  and  kilns.  Great 
trucks  rumbled  along  the  roadways.  Faintly  a 
locomotive  whistled,  as  the  switch  engine  from 
Tabernacle  clanked  to  the  mills  for  the  make-up 
of  its  daily  stub-train  of  lumber  cars.  But  the 
attention  of  Ba'tiste  Renaud  was  on  none  of  these. 
Out  in  a  safe  portion  of  the  lake  was  a  boat,  and 
within  it  sat  two  persons,  a  man  and  a  woman,  their 
rods  flashing  as  they  made  their  casts,  now  drawing 
slowly  backward  for  another  whip  of  the  fly,  now 
bending  with  the  swift  leap  of  a  captive  trout. 
And  he  watched  them  with  the  eyes  of  a  father 
looking  upon  children  who  have  fulfilled  his  every 
hope,  children  deeply,  greatly  beloved. 

As  for  the  man  and  the  woman,  they  laughed  and 
glanced  at  each  other  as  they  cast,  or  shouted  and 
shrilled  with  the  excitement  of  the  leaping  trout 
as  the  fly  caught  fair  and  the  struggle  of  the  rod 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  301 

and  reel  began,  to  end  with  another  flopping 
form  in  the  creel,  another  delicacy  for  the  table  at 
camp.  But  at  last  the  girl  leaned  back,  and  her 
fly  trailed  disregarded  in  the  water. 

"Barry,"  she  asked,  "what  day's  to-morrow ?" 

"Wednesday,"  he  said,  and  cast  again  in  the 
direction  of  a  dead,  jutting  tree,  the  home  of  more 
than  one  three-pounder.  She  pouted. 

"Of  course  it's  Wednesday.     But  what  else?" 

"I  don't  know.  Let  me  see.  Twentieth,  isn't 
it?" 

This  time  her  rod  flipped  in  mock  anger, 

"Barry,"  she  commanded.  "What  day  is  to- 
morrow?" 

He  looked  at  her  blankly. 

"I  give  it  up,"  came  after  deep  thought.  "What 
day  is  to-morrow?" 

She  pressed  tight  her  lips,  striving  bravely  for 
sternness.  But  in  vain.  An  upward  curve  made 
its  appearance  at  the  corners.  The  blue  eyes 
twinkled.  She  laughed. 

"Foolish!"  she  chided.  "I  might  have  expected 
you  to  forget.  It's  our  first  monthiversaryl" 


THE  END 


"The  Books  You  Like  to  Read 
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EDGAR  RICE  BURROUGH'S 
NOVELS 

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TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

Tells  of  Tarzan'  s  return  to  the  life  of  the  ape-man  in 
his  search  for  vengeance  on  those  who  took  from  him  his 
wife  and  home. 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

Records  the  many  wonderful  exploits  by  which  Tarzan  t 
proves  his  right  to  ape  kingship. 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

Forty-three  million  miles  from  the  earth — a  succession 
of  the  weirdest  and  most  astounding  adventures  in  fiction. 
John  Carter,  American,  finds  himself  on  the  planet  Mars, 
battling  for  a  beautiful  woman,  with  the  Green  Men  of 
Mars,  terrible  creatures  fifteen  feet  high,  mounted  on 
horses  like  dragons. 

THE  GODS  OF  MARS 

Continuing  John  Carter*  s  adventures  on  the  Planet  Mars, 
in  which  he  does  battle  against  the  ferocious  "plant  men," 
creatures  whose  mighty  tails  swished  their  victims  to  instant 
death,  and  defies  Issus,  the  terrible  Goddess  of  Death, 
whom  all  Mars  worships  and  reveres. 

THE  WARLORD  OF  MARS 

Old  acquaintances,  made  in  the  two  other  stories,  reap- 
pear, Tars  Tarkas,  Tardos  Mors  and  others.  There  is  a 
happy  ending  to  the  story  in  the  union  of  the  Warlord, 
the  title  conferred  upon  John  Carter,  with  Dejah  Thoris, 

THUVIA,  MAID  OF  MARS 

The  fourth  volume  of  the  series.  The  story  centers 
around  the  adventures  of  Carthoris,  the  son  of  John  Car-* 
ter  and  Thuvia,  daughter  of  a  Martian  Emperor. 

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STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

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THE  RIVER'S  END  ~ 

A  story  of  the  Royal  Mounted  Police, 
THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 
j    Thrilling  adventures  in  the  Far  Northland. 
NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 
-The  story  of  a  bear-cub  and  a  dog. 
KAZAN 

The  tale  of  a  "quarter-strain  wolf  and  three-quarters  husky"  tor* 
between  the  call  of  the  human  and  his  wild  mate. 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

The  story  of  the  son  of  the  blind  Grey  Wolf  and  the  gallant  part 
be  played  in  the  lives  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

The  story  of  the  King  of  Beaver  Island,  a  Mormon  colony,  and  ku 
battle  with  Captain  Plum. 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

A  tale  of  love,  Indian  vengeance,  and  a  mystery  of  the  North. 
THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

A  tale  of  a  great  fight  in  the  "  valley  of  gold  "  for  a  woman. 
THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  Fort  o'  God,  where  the  wild  flavor  of  the  wilderness 
is  blended  with  the  courtly  atmosphere  of  France. 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

The  story  of  Thor,  the  big  grizzly. 
ISOBEL 

A  love  story  of  the  Far  North. 
THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 

A  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  in  the  Canadian  wilderness. 
THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

The  story  of  adventure  in  the  Hudson  Bay  wild«. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Filled  with  exciting  incidents  in  the  land  of  strong  men  and  women, 
BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

A  thrilling  story  of  the  Far  North.  The  great  Photoplay  wa*  mad« 
from  this  book. 

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THE  MAN  OF  THK  FOREST 
THE  DESERT  OF  WHEATj 
THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 
WILDFIRE 

THE  BORDER  LEGION^ 
THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 
THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 
RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 
THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 
THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 
DESERT  GOLD 
BETTY  ZANE 

[*          **••[*         ;•] 
LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS 

The  life  story  of  "Buffalo  Bill"  by  his  sister  Helen  Cody 
"Wotmore,  with  Foreword  and  conclusion  by  Zane  Grey. 

ZANE  GREY'S  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS 

KEN  WARD  IN  THE  JUNGLE j 
THE  YOUNG  LION  HUNTER 

THE  YOUNG  FORESTER 

i  * 

THE  YOUNG  PITCHER 
THE  SHORT  STOP 

THE  RED-HEADED  OUTFIELD  AND  OTHER 
BASEBALL  STORIES 

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PETER  B.  KYNE'S  NOVELS 

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THE  PRIDE  OF  PALOMAR 

When  two  strong  men  clash  and  the  under-dog  has  Irish 
blood  in  his  veins — there's  a  tale  that  Kyne  can  tell !  And 
"  the  girl "  is  also  very  much  in  evidence. 

KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Donald  McKay,  son  of  Hector  McKay,  millionaire  lum- 
ber king,  falls  in  love  with  "  Nan  of  the  Sawdust  Pile,"  a 
charming  girl  who  has  been  ostracized  by  her  townsfolk* 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GIANTS 

The  fight  of  the  Cardigans,  father  and  son,  to  hold  the 
Valley  of  the  Giants  against  treachery.  The  reader  finishes 
with  a  sense  of  having  lived  with  big  men  and  women  in  a 
big  country. 

GAPPY  RICKS 

The  story  of  old  Gappy  Ricks  and  of  Matt  Peasley,  the 
boy  he  tried  to  break  because  he  knew  the  acid  test  was 
good  for  his  soul. 

WEBSTER:   MAN'S  MAN 

In  a  little  Jim  Crow  Republic  in  Central  America,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  hailing  from  the  "  States,"  met  up  with  a 
revolution  and  for  a  while  adventures  and  excitement  came 
so  thick  and  fast  that  their  love  affair  had  to  wait  for  a  lull 
in  the  game. 

CAPTAIN  SCRAGGS 

This  sea  yarn  recounts  the  adventures  of  three  rapscal- 
lion sea-faring  men — a  Captain  Scraggs,  owner  of  the  green 
vegetable  freighter  Maggie,  Gibney  the  mate  and  McGuff- 
ney  the  engineer. 

THE  LONG  CHANCE 

A  story  fresh  from  the  heart  of  the  West,  of  San  Pasqual, 
a  sun-baked  desert  town,  of  Harley  P.  Hennage,  the  best 
gambler,  the  best  and  worst  man  of  San  Pasqual  and  of 
lovely  Donna. 

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RUBY  M.   AYRE'S    NOVELS 

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RICHARD  CHATTERTON 

A  fascinating  story  in  which  love  and  jealousy  play 
strange  tricks  with  women's  souls. 

A  BACHELOR  HUSBAND 

Can  a  woman  love  two  men  at  the  same  time  ? 

In  its  solving  of  this  particular  variety  of  triangle  "  A 
Bachelor  Husband  "  will  particularly  interest,  and  strangely 
enough,  without  one  shock  to  the  most  conventional  minded. 

THE  SCAR 

With  fine  comprehension  and  insight  the  author  shows  a 
terrific  contrast  between  the  woman  whose  love  was  of  the 
flesh  and  one  whose  love  was  of  the  spirit. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  BARRY  WICKLOW 

Here  is  a  man  and  woman  who,  marrying  for  love,  yet  try 
to  build  their  wedded  life  upon  a  gospel  of  hate  for  each 
other  and  yet  win  back  to  a  greater  love  for  each  other  in 
the  end. 

THE  UPHILL  ROAD 

The  heroine  of  this  story  was  a  consort  of  thieves.  The 
man  was  fine,  clean,  fresh  from  the  West.  It  is  a  story  of 
strength  and  passion. 

WINDS  OF  THE  WORLD 

Jill,  a  poor  little  typist,  marries  the  great  Henry  Sturgess 
and  inherits  millions,  but  not  happiness.  Then  at  last — but 
we  must  leave  that  to  Ruby  M.  Ayres  to  tell  you  as  only 
she  can. 

THE  SECOND  HONEYMOON 

In  this  story  the  author  has  produced  a  book  which  no 
one  who  has  loved  or  hopes  to  love  can  afford  to  miss. 
The  story  fairly  leaps  from  climax  to  climax. 

THE  PHANTOM  LOVER 

Have  you  not  often  heard  of  someone  being  in  love  with 
love  rather  than  the  person  they  believed  the  object  of  their 
affections  ?  That  was  Esther !  But  she  passes  through  the 
crisis  into  a  deep  and  profound  love. 

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FLORENCE  L.  BARCLAY'S 
NOVELS 

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THE  WHITE  LADIES  OF  WORCESTER 

A  novel  of  the  12tb  Century.  The  heroine,  believing  she 
had  lost  her  lover,  enters  a  convent.  He  returns,  and  in- 
teresting developments  follow. 

THE  UPAS  TREE 

A  love  story  of  rare  charm.  It  deals  with  a  successful 
author  and  his  wife. 

THROUGH  THE  POSTERN  GATE 

The  story  of  a.  seven  day  courtship,  in  which  the  dis- 
crepancy hi  ages  vanished  into  insignificance  before  the 
convincing  demonstration  of  abiding  love. 

THE  ROSARY 

The  story  of  a  young  artist  who  is  reputed  to  love  beauty 
above  all  else  in  the  world,  but  who,  when  blinded  through 
an  accident,  gains  life's  greatest  happiness.  A  rare  story 
of  the  great  passion  of  two  real  people  superbly  capable  ol 
love,  its  sacrifices  and  its  exceeding  reward. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

The  lovely  young  Lady  Ingleby,  recently  widowed  by  the 
death  of  a  husband  who  never  understood  her,  meets  a  fine, 
clean  young  chap  who  is  ignorant  of  her  title  and  they  fall 
deeply  in  love  with  each  other.  When  he  learns  her  real 
identity  a  situation  of  singular  power  is  developed. 

THE  BROKEN  HALO 

The  story  of  a  young  man  whose  religious  belief  was 
shattered  in  childhood  and  restored  to  him  by  the  little 
white  lady,  many  years  older  than  himself,  to  whom  he  is 
passionately  devoted. 

THE  FOLLOWING  OF  THE  STAR 

The  story  of  a  young  missionary,  who,  about  to  start  for 
Africa,  marries  wealthy  Diana  Rivers,  in  order  to  help  her 
fulfill  the  conditions  of  her  uncle's  will,  and  how  they  finally 
come  to  love  each  other  and  are  reunited  after  experiences 
that  soften  and  purify. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


ETHEL    M.    DELL'S    NOVELS 

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THE  LAMP  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  scene  of  this  splendid  story  is  laid  in  India  and 
tells  of  the  lamp  of  love  that  continues  to  shine  througb 
ill  sorts  of  tribulations  to  final  happiness. 

GREATHEART 

The  story  of  a  cripple  whose  deformed  body  conceals 
a  noble  soul 

THE  HUNDREDTH  CHANCE 

A  hero  who  worked  to  win  even  when  there  was  only 
**a  hundredth  chance." 

THE  SWINDLER 

The  story  of  a  "bad  man's"  soul  revealed  by  a 
woman's  faith, 

THE  TIDAL  WAVE 

Tales  of  love  and  of  women  who  learned  to  know  the 
true  from  the  false. 

THE  SAFETY  CURTAIN 

A  very  vivid  love  story  of  India.  The  volume  ako 
contains  four  other  long  stories  of  equal  interest 


GKOSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW 


ELEANOR  H.  PORTER'S  NOVELS 

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JUST  DAVID 

The  tale  of  a  loveable  boy  and  the  place  he  comes  to 
fill  in  the  hearts  of  the  gruff  farmer  folk  to  whose  care  he 
is  left. 

THE  ROAD  TO  UNDERSTANDING 

A  compelling  romance  of  love  and  marriage. 
OH,  MONEY  !  MONEY  ! 

Stanley  Fulton,  a  wealthy  bachelor,  to  test  the  disposi* 
tions  of  his  relatives,  sends  them  each  a  check  for  $100,- 
000,  and  then  as  plain  John  Smith  comes  among  them  to 
watch  the  result  of  his  experiment. 

SIX  STAR  RANCH 

A  wholesome  story  of  a  club  of  six  girls  and  their  sum- 
mer on  Six  Star  Ranch. 

DAWN 

The  story  of  a  blind  boy  whose  courage  leads  him 
through  the  gulf  of  despair  into  a  final  victory  gained  by 
dedicating  his  life  to  the  service  of  blind  soldiers. 

ACROSS  THE  YEARS 

Short  stories  of  our  own  kind  and  of  our  own  people. 
Contains  some  of  the  best  writing  Mrs.  Porter  has  done. 

THE  TANGLED  THREADS 

In  these  stories  we  find  the  concentrated  charm  and 
tenderness  of  all  her  other  books. 

THE  TIE  THAT  BINDS 

Intensely  human  stories  told  with  Mrs.  Porter's  won- 
derful talent  for  warm  and  vivid  character-  drawing. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


BOOTH     TARKINGTON'S 
NOVELS 

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SEVENTEEN.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  William  Brown. 

No  one  but  the  creator  of  Penrod  could  have  portrayed 
the  immortal  young  people  of  this  stor"y.  Its  humor  is  irre- 
sistible and  reminiscent  of  the  time  when  the  reader  waa 
Seventeen. 

PENROD.    Illustrated  by  Gordon  Grant. 

This  is  a  picture  of  a  boy's  heart,  full  of  the  lovable,  hu-  : 
morous,  tragic  things  which  are  locked  secrets  to  most  older  . 
folks.  It  is  a  finished,  exquisite  work. 

PENROD  AND  SAM.  Illustrated  by  Worth  Brehm. 

Like  "  Penrod "  and  "  Seventeen,"  this  book  contains 
some  remarkable  phases  of  real  boyhood  and  some  of  the  best 
stories  of  juvenile  prankishness  that  have  ever  been  written. 

THE  TURMOIL.    Illustrated  by  G.  E.  Chambers. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  is  a  dreamy,  imaginative  youth,  who  re- 
volts against  his  father's  plans  for  him  to  be  a  servitor  of 
big  business.  The  love  of  a  fine  girl  turns  Bibb's  life  from 
failure  to  success. 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA.    Frontispiece. 

A  story  of  love  and  politics, — more  especially  a  picture  of 
a  country  editor's  life  in  Indiana,  but  the  charm  of  the  book 
lies  in  the  love  interest. 

THE  FLIRT.    Illustrated  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 

The  "  Flirt,"  the  younger  of  two  sisters,  breaks  one  girl's 
engagement,  drives  one  man  to  suicide,  causes  the  murder 
of  another,  leads  another  to  lose  his  fortune,  and  in  the  end 
marries  a  stupid  and  unpromising  suitor,  leaving  the  really 
worthy  one  to  marry  her  sister. 

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THE  NOVELS  OF 

WINSTON  CHURCHILL 

THE  INSIDE  OF  THE  CUP.    Illustrated  by  Howard  Giles. 

The  Reverend  John  Hoddar  is  called  to  a  fashionable  church  in 
a  middle-western  city.  He  knows  little  of  modern  problems  and  in 
his  theology  is  as  orthodox  as  the  rich  men  who  control  his  church 
could  desire.  But  the  facts  of  modern  life  ars  thrust  upon  him;  a? 
awakening  follows  and  in  the  end  he  works  out  a  solution. 
A  FAR  COUNTRY.  Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  novel  is  concerned  with  big  problems  of  the  day.    As  The 
Inside  of  the  Cup  gets  down  to  the  essentials  in  its  discussion  of  re- 
ligion, so  A  Far  Country  deals  in  a  story  that  is  intense  and  dra- 
matic, with  other  vital  issues  confronting  'the  twentieth  century. 
A  MODERN  CHRONICLE.    Illustrated  by  J.  H.  Gardner  Soper. 

This,  Mr.  Churchill's  first  great  presentation  of  the  Eternal 
Feminine,  is  throughout  a  profound  study  of  a  fascinating  young 
American  woman.    It  is  frankly  a  modern  love  story. 
MR.  CREWE'S  CAREER.     Illus.  by  A.  I.  Keller  and  Kinneys. 

A  new  England  state  is  under  the  political  domination  of  a  rail- 
way and  Mr.  Crewe,  a  millionaire,  seizes  a  moment  when  the  cause 
of  the  people  is  being  espoused  by  an  ardent  young  attorney,  to  fur- 
ther his  own  interest  in  a  political  way.  The  daughter  of  the  rail- 
way president  plays  no  small  part  in  the  situation. 
THE  CROSSING.  Illustrated  by  S.  Adamson  and  L.  Baylis. 

Describing  the  battle  of  Fort  Moultrie,  the  blazing  of  the  Ken- 
tucky wilderness,  the  expedition  of  Clark  and  his  handful  of  follow- 
ers in   Illinois,  the  beginning  of   civilization  along  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi,  and  the  treasonable  schemes  against  Washington. 
CONISTON.    Illustrated  by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn. 

A  deft  blending  of  love  and  politics.    A  New  Englander  is  the 
hero,  a  crude  man  who  rose  to  political  prominence  by  his  own  pow« 
ers,  and  then  surrendered  all  for  the  love  of  a  woman. 
THE  CELEBRITY.    An  episode. 

An  inimitable  bit  of  comedy  describing  an  interchange  of  per- 
sonalities between  a  celebrated  author  and  a  bicycle  salesman.    It 
is  the  purest,  keenest  fun — and  is  American  to  the  core. 
THE  CRISIS.    Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  Photo-Play. 

A  book  that  presents  the  great  crisis  in  our  national  life  with 
splendid  power  and  with  a  sympathy,  a  sincerity,  and  a  patriotism 
that  are  inspiring. 
RICHARD  CARVEL.    Illustrated  by  Malcolm  Frazer. 

An  historical  novel  which  gives  a  real  and  vivid  picture  of  Co- 
lonaal  times,  and  is  good,  clean,  spirited  reading  in  all  its  phasec  aod 
interesting  throughout. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,      PUBLISHERS,     NEW  YORK 


JACK    LONDON'S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  ara  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

JOHN  BARLEYCORN.    Illustrated  by  H.  T.  Dunn. 

This  remarkable  book  is  a  record  of  the  author's  own  amazing 
«xperiences.  This  big,  brawny  world  rover,  who  has  been  ac- 
quainted with  alcohol  from  boyhood,  comes  out  boldly  against  John 
Barleycorn.  It  is  a  string  of  exciting  adventures,  yet  it  forcefully 
Conveys  an  unforgetable  idea  and  makes  a  typical  Jack  London  book. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON.    Frontispiece  by  George  Harper. 

The  story  opens  in  the  city  slums  where  Billy  Roberts,  teamster 
and  ex -prize  fighter,  and  Saxon  Brown,  laundry  worker,  meet  and 
love  and  marry.  They  tramp  from  one  end  of  California  to  the 
other,  and  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon  find  the  farm  paradise  that  is 
to  be  their  salvation. 
BURNING  DAYLIGHTr  Four  illustrations. . 

The  story  of  an  adventurer  who  went  to  Alaska  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  his  fortune  before  the  gold  hunters  arrived.  Bringing 
his  fortunes  to  the  States  he  is  cheated  out  of  it  by  a  crowd  of  money 
kings,  and  recovers  it  only  at  the  muzzle  of  his  gun.  He  then  starts 
out  as  a  merciless  exploiter  on  his  own  account.  Finally  he  takes  to 
drinking  and  becomes  a  picture  of  degeneration.  About  this  time 
he  falls  in  love  with  his  stenographer  and  wins  her  heart  but  not 
her  hand  and  then— but  read  the  story! 
A  SON  OF  THE  SUN.  Illustrated  by  A.  O.  Fischer  and  C.W.  Ashley. 

David  Grief  was  once  a  light -haired,  blue-eyed  youth  who  came 
from  England  to  the  South  Seas  in  search  of  adventure.  Tanned 
like  a  native  and  as  lithe  as  a  tiger,  he  became  a  real  son  of  the  sun. 
The  life  appealed  to  him  and  he  remained  and  became  very  wealthy. 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin  and 
Charles  Livingston  Bull.  Decorations  by  Charles  E.  Hooper. 

A  book  of  dog  adventures  as  exciting  as  any  man's  exploits 
could  be.  Here  is  excitement  to  stir  the  blood  and  here  is  pictur- 
esque color  to  transport  the  reader  to  primitive  scenes* 

THE  SEA  WOLF.    Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward. 

Told  by  a  man  whom  Fate  suddenly  swings  from  his  fastidious 
life  into  the  power  of  the  brutal  captain  of  a  sealing  schooner.  A 
novel  of  adventure  warmed  by  a  beautiful  love  episode  that  every 
reader  will  hail  with  delight. 

WHITE  FANG.    Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

"White  Fang"  is  part  dog,  part  wolf  and  all  brute,  living  in  the 
frozen  north ;  he  gradually  comes  under  the  spell  of  man's  com- 
panionship, and  surrenders  all  at  the  last  in  a  fight  with  a  bull  dog. 
Thereafter  he  is  man's  loving  slave.  fi| . ,, 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,   NEW  YORK 


Every  chapter  teems  with  whclesome,  stirring  adventures,  replete  with  the  dashinf 
spirit  of  the  border. 


NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE  BY 

WILLIAM  MACLEOD   RAINE 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.        Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

MAVERICKS 

A  tale  of  the  western  frontier,  where  the  "  rustier  "  abounds.    One  of  the  sweetest 
love  stories  ever  told. 

A  TEXAS  RANGER 

How  a  member  of  the  border  police  saved  the  life  of  an  innocent  man,  followed  a 
fugitive  to  Wyoming,  and  then  passed  through  deadly  peril  to  ultimate  happiness. 

WYOMING 

In  this  vivid  story  the  author  brings  out  the  turbid  life  of  the  frontier  with  all  ita 
engaging  dash  and  vigor. 

RIDGWAY  OF  MONTANA 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  mining:  centers  of  Montana,  where  politics  and  mining  in* 
dostries  are  the  religion  of  the  country. 

BUCKY  O'CONNOR 

Every  chapter  teems  with  i 
spirit  of  the  border. 

CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

A  story  of  Arizona  ;  of  swift-riding  men  and  daring  outlaws;  of  a  bitter  feud  be- 
tween cattle-men  and  sheep-herders. 

BRAND  BLOTTERS 

A  story  of  the  turbid  life  of  the  frontier  with  a  rh»rm.og  love  interest 
through  its  pages, 
STEVE  YEAGER 

A  story  brimful  of  excitement,  with  enough  gun-play  and  adventure  tc  suit 
A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  DONS 

A  Western  story  of  romance  and  adventure,  comprising  a  vivacious  and  stirring 
tale. 
THE  HIGH  GRADER 

A  breezy,  pleasant  and  amusing  love  story  of  Western  mining  life. 
THE  PIRATE  OF  PANAMA 

A  tale  of  old-time  pirates  and  of  modern  love,  hate  and  adventure. 
THE  YUKON  TRAIL 

A  crisply  entertaining  love  story  in  the  land  where  might  makes  right. 
THE  VISION  SPLENDID 

In  which  two  cousins  are  contestants  for  tie  same  prizes ;  political  honors  and  tha 
hand  of  a  girl. 

THE   SHERIFF'S  SON 

The  hero  finally  conquers  both  himself  and  his  enemies  and  wins  the  love  of  a 
wonderful  girl. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


THIS  BOOK 


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